Shadow Child
by Kourion
Summary: 'So you're not a robot. So they were wrong, Sherlock! So everyone who thought you were heartless and unfeeling... was foolish and stupid and wrong.' / Warnings for past child abuse/ non-con issues. Eventual Johnlock (romance focus only/ issues with sexuality/ fear of sex). Protective!John/ Case-fic.
1. Chapter 1

**Title - Shadow Child**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **I take a step back, my heart fluttering in my chest. The look of rage I had seen a moment before is rapidly draining from my friend's face. "Did I - did I hurt you?," Sherlock clarifies, his eyes closed. Unwilling to look. / Hints of Johnlock. Angst. Warnings for child abuse/ non-con.

**A/N: **I'm a new Sherlock fan, just learning the ropes. All concrit very much appreciated. This may turn into a ficlet with a few more parts depending on interest/ response. It may turn into a larger fic in the future, but at present time I am completely behind with updating some of my other WIP's and don't want to start on anything too bulky. :) Reviews are absolute love!

**Warnings/notes:** This fic deals with pretty weighty material, not the least of which is child abuse. Please proceed with caution if you think any of these issues could trigger you in any way.

* * *

_"For in every adult there dwells the child that was, and in every child there lies the adult that will be." - John Conolly _

* * *

The anger is making my hands tremble. I clench them to get the shaking to stop.

Sherlock seems unrepentant. Wholly disinterested in the subject at hand, and it's making my anger even worse.

Currently he's attacking the top of a new Horlicks container with the tine of a fork, messily trying to open up the container. His motions seem almost frantic even though his facial expression is one of forced calmness.

I've never seen him actually make himself a beverage before. Aside from black coffee, Earl grey tea, or pouring himself the odd cup of water.

An old snippet of conversation flitters into my brain - random and off-putting, and in no way related to the issue at hand:

_'Do you have a girlfriend? Someone who feds you up?'_

_'Is that what girlfriends do? Feed you up?'_

I turn off my mobile. Take in a bit of air.

Debate how to begin.

"You are off, Sherlock. You know that, don't you? Off this case. Lestrade is furious. You're lucky if decides that he wants to work with you ever-"

My voice quavers with emotion and I stop speaking. Sherlock's motions have come to a pause, as if he's actually listening to me somewhat, before he resumes his stabbing at the Horlicks container.

_'It's all transport.'_

_'This body is just transport, John. The only thing that matters is the mind.'_

When he speaks again, he gives no indication that he's heard anything I've had to say even though I distinctly saw his brief flash of anger at my earlier words.

_So it's all an act. This calm disinterest._

_This deliberate avoidance of the subject at hand._

"Damn foil lids. Those idiots. Absolute cretins. They basically glue them to the-"

"Did you hear what I said? Do you understand the harm you may have caused to this case? Does any of this register?!"

My volume has increased over the last few seconds, and Sherlock closes his eyes briefly as if overwhelmed by the noise. I see him rub his hands back and forth together as if rubbing sticks together to start a camp fire. It's an odd motion - one I haven't seen him do before. But it's something.

_It's a reaction._

"Sherlock!"

"I didn't do anything wrong," his voice is soft when he speaks again. Not quite a whisper, but soft. Something about it seems almost dangerous.

"You didn't do anything wrong?," I repeat slowly, as if trying to ascertain that - yes, that's _really what he's said_. "You _punched_ a man, Sherlock! A child's parent! For all intents and purposes - a victim in his own right. You broke his nose! There may be real consequences here! There may be charges - do you even understand that?"

Sherlock picks up the Horlicks jar, ignoring me and eyeing the directions.

"Can you just put down the damn drink mix for one bleeding second and deal with this like an adult?!"

My flat mate glares at me. His blue eyes seem fuller and paler in the weak light of the evening. The pupils have constricted and seem small.

He's off put.

"I haven't even had dinner yet, John!"

Some part of me is alarmed at how easily Sherlock thinks a drink of Horlicks constitutes as a possible 'dinner.'

"And that deviates from a normal evening, how?"

"I haven't had dinner in days, and I deserve to be able to have some dinner! I'm hungry!"

_Hungry. _

_Well, that's a first._

"Which you can have in all but five minutes, Sherlock. After we are done talking about this."

"Well maybe I'm done talking about this _now_!," he seethes; I reach out to grab his shoulder, _to turn him around, to get him to face what he's done and..._

His face contorts.

It goes from seemingly disinterested and unconcerned, if somewhat irritable - to a mask of gargoyle-like rage in a matter of seconds. Without meaning to, I suck in a breath. A moment later I am jumping back at the sound of breaking glass.

I look down dumbly and away from Sherlock's line of sight and see Horlicks powder - creamy and pale - coating the floor. Shards of glass, thick and typically unbreakable, lay near Sherlock's feet.

It's only then that I realize: the jar didn't just drop.

He threw it.

_He broke the jar deliberately_.

He smashed it.

My heart is fluttering in my chest. The look of rage I had seen a moment before in him is rapidly draining away.

I open my mouth to say something - _I'm not sure what_ - when my shoes interact with the edge of a glass splinter. It generates a scratchy sound against the tile.

"Did I - did I hurt you?," Sherlock clarifies, his eyes closed. Unwilling to look.

I stare down at my legs, and brush at my jeans.

"No, but-," my eyes catch sight of Sherlock's feet. One is turning purple. A curlicue ribbon of red is swirling away from his bare legs. It almost looks too pretty to be blood.

"Don't move, Sherlock."

He doesn't.

* * *

I grab the broom from the hall closet and return quickly. Sherlock seems fixed in his position. His arms are wrapped around his midsection.

"I need to clear a pathway first. I'm sorry. I don't want you stepping on any more glass."

It's obvious, and I know it's obvious, but I can't help the clarification.

When I've removed the majority of glass debris and deposits from the kitchen floor, I assess the damage to my friends' limb.

A small pool of blood is outlining Sherlock's feet. His legs have taken on a pale, unnatural chalk colour. A flap of skin hangs apart slightly from his right shin; this is the wound that is generating the majority of the bleeding.

"Can you walk?," I ask tentatively.

He gives me a look.

"I didn't break a bone, John! _Of course_ I can walk," he hisses out at me, his face contorting in pain as he moves.

I usher him into the bathroom, and Sherlock deposits himself into a chair that's been placed under the medicine cabinet. It's wicker, and he's going to bleed on it, and it's unlikely that I'll be able to get all the blood out of it later.

_But I could care less about that right now._

I move his dressing gown away, slightly. Gingerly, so as to not generate more pain. His black silk pant leg has been torn, and the skin peaks out in identification of the injury.

"These were my best pajamas," he says moodily. "What a shame."

I shoot him a look and then go to grab the hydrogen peroxide and a bag of cotton balls from under the sink. When I return to his side I begin by saturating one in the solution of antiseptic.

"_I don't get it. I really don't get it. Your behaviour has been_-," I speak in low tones, inspecting the skin, and getting a butterfly bandage ready for application. As gently as possibly, I press the cotton to the wound and Sherlock sucks in his breath quickly, as if shocked by the sting of the peroxide. "Too shallow for stitches, so no hospital," I mutter. "It should stop bleeding soon."

I keep my hand pressed against Sherlock's leg. It's bleeding quite a bit still so I remind myself that glass wounds are like that. They are like head wounds: they bleed profusely.

Still, the tremulous movement of my friend in the chair has me concerned.

I place the bandage against his leg, then wrap with additional bleached-white gauze and secure everything down with hospital tape. When I look back up, Sherlock has closed his eyes and he's making panting noises as if he's nauseous.

"John!_,"_ the sudden insistence in his voice is unmistakable.

For one brief second, I think he's going to vomit.

"What's wrong? Sherlock? What's _wrong_?"

This - all of **_this_** - is not a response I would have expected for him. He's not phobic of blood, and he's endured far worse physical injuries in the past. And whatever has come over him has come _quickly._

"I feel funny. I feel- _John_!," his voice contains a keening, needful sort of plea. But I have no idea what is going on.

And suddenly he's gasping for air, and the doctor in me is kicking into high gear because even if I don't understand the _why's_ just yet - I know what is happening. As even though I haven't experienced it myself, I've seen it countless times.

He's having a panic attack.

"It's okay," I say with greater calm than I feel. Because it's not, and because his entire body is shaking like a leaf and because two bloody minutes ago - he seemed fine, "head down. Bring your head down. No - don't bring your legs up, you'll make it bleed again. No, just focus on my voice. Take in a shallow breath. Come on, Sherlock. Right, just like that. No - no, just hold it. Not too deep. You're breathing too fast, Sherlock."

He's breathing too rapidly. At this rate, he's going to start hyperventilating; it's then that I realize he's not simply woozy from shock of the injury or the blood loss as I had supposed in the past. He's been steadily becoming more and more anxious over the course of the evening and his deviation in routine was a giant, neon warning sign of this.

And I didn't even see this encroaching. That this attack is just the final culmination of what I _didn't see._

Because suddenly: it's here.

"I can't - I can't _breathe_!"

"Yes, you can! You're having an anxiety attack. A panic attack. I know it feels awful, just awful - but you're going to be okay, Sherlock. I promise. You're not going crazy and you're not dying. Come on, just listen to my voice. It's going to go away soon, and you will feel much-"

Sherlock's head now shakes back and forth in rapid succession.

"No. _Noooo_," he wheezes, "can't. breathe. John - _help me!_ Call Mycro-"

His eyes are wide and owlish, and he suddenly looks profoundly younger.

Something twists in my guts when he grabs my hand. Because Sherlock Holmes never just grabs anyone's hand, and never in fear.

I cup my hands and bring them up near his face.

"Just breathe into my hands then, Sherlock. It'll help. It's all about regulating the oxygen and carbon dioxide levels in your blood. That's what's worsening the panic and making you hyperventilate - it's just simple biochemistry. And we'll get everything fixed and then you can read up on it, huh? I'll even let you steal my laptop, eh? Come on. That's good - just keep breathing just like that-"

I know I'm blathering on and on, but I keep the wording and the pacing even and regulated. I hope the very act of explaining why he's experiencing what he's experiencing will help him through this with minimal anxiety.

For some individuals, it wouldn't make a whit of difference. But Sherlock likes scientific explanations. It's how his mind works. He likes to know the in's and out's of things. And beyond all that - I'm just hoping I can distract him a bit.

Sherlock's hands have grasped onto my wrists now and I can't help but take in how cold and clammy they are.

Suddenly, I feel a surge of protectiveness and faint affection bloom in my core. I push it away and focus on his breathing, instead.

After a few minutes the shaking starts to reduce and his gasping gulps of air diminishes. I unfurl my hands and slowly scootch over to where he's sitting, lowering myself down on to my haunches so that I can look him in the eyes.

It's only then that I realize his eyes are full of tears. Genuine tears, save - possibly - for the time in Baskerville.

My hand comes up carefully, and finally rests on the small of Sherlock's back. I move my palm in slight clockwise movements and see him brush at his eyes with the back of one curled fist. He starts to calm down a bit, although his face is now infused with pink.

_He's...ashamed._

"You don't have to be embarrassed, Sherlock. Panic attacks are-"

Sherlock's entire jaw is clenched.

"That wasn't a panic attack," he says slowly. "Why would I have a panic attack?"

I squint, try to really take him in.

"Okay, well - from where I am standing it sure looked-"

"I've had panic attacks before! I know what they are. What they were, and they were always-"

His lean arms have come to twist around his waist and he brings his legs together until he's almost sitting cross legged in the chair.

"Alright, well - you _used to have panic attacks_. And I just so happen to think that you may have had another one again tonight. Did you used to have them often when you were younger?"

Sherlock nods. He looks tired as he bites at one thumb nail.

"I used to have really bad attacks when I was a little boy."

_Something unfurls in my heart. Not only is the statement unexpected, and terribly honest - but..._

"You did? I wouldn't have pegged you for being an anxious kid."

I give a hesitant smile, because the tension in the room right now is so thick it's almost unbearable.

"Why?"

I'm lost.

"Why _what_? I don't know what you mean."

Sherlock breathes out in a rush. I can hear something layered in the air.

"Why _wouldn't_ you have?" Something that sounds almost like a cry, but spirited away under the typical Sherlock snort of irritation.

"Because you don't seem to get anxious too often. You do and say things that would cause almost anyone else anxiety, except you."

Sherlock looks troubled. Not amused.

"Maybe that's because I'm a sociopath," he says at last, not meeting my eyes.

He sounds different this time too, when he says the word. It doesn't come off as sounding arrogant, or like he's branding the term 'sociopath' about like some twistedly beloved title.

And then, like a thunder clap: I get it.

_Damn it, Sherlock._

_Why did you take on their labels?_

_Freak_

_Psychopath_

_Sociopath_

_When they weren't truthful?_

"I don't think you are a sociopath. I've never thought that."

The suggestion seems to stymie him, and he's quiet for a moment.

"What do you think I was like when I was a child then? If someone asked you - what would you say?"

I frown at the question. Rub my hands on my thighs.

"I dunno. I'd probably guess that you were much like you are now, I guess. Smaller, of course. Probably just as much a smart alec, I bet."

Sherlock looks at his knees then, letting out a sigh. He doesn't look happy with the analysis even though I kept it brief on purpose.

"I wasn't a bad kid," he whispers a few moments later. "I know everyone thinks I must have always been like this, but I wasn't _bad _then."

My heart is pounding so strongly now in my chest and I can actually hear the blood swishing through my skull. The pressure is enormous. It feels almost like the onset of a migraine.

"I never thought you were bad when you were a child, Sherlock," I say carefully. Feeling as if I am walking into emotional land-mine territory, and having no idea why. "Did someone say you were bad as a child?"

He shakes his head slowly, as if uncertain by the movement. But that's his only response.

"I don't think you are bad now, either. If that helps you in any sense."

_God - what are you trying to tell me Sherlock?_

_What are you trying to get out?_

"I wasn't bad when I was little, and Toby Thiesen wasn't bad either," he adds a minute later, as if I haven't spoken at all.

I take a few seconds to get my bearing, to actually GET that it's actually Sherlock whose speaking these words. Not one of the children from our recent case from hell. And these nonsensical words feel wrong. They don't fit the puzzle that is Sherlock.

They fit a different puzzle. One I don't want to call by name, for fear of making it true.

An image flashes into my mind...

_a child on one of my earliest rotations. Long before the army._

_Small little boy, baby face. 4 years old._

_Light brown hair, almost red-brown._

_Pale skin. _

_Hazel eyes. _

_Serious hazel eyes, like an adult's._

_Skinny, like Sherlock must have been._

_Burn marks between his thighs._

_Made with an iron._

I stand up abruptly, feeling suddenly sick, and so I rub my hands through my hair.

My head and back feel sweaty, and Sherlock is looking away from me.

His teeth are gnashing away at his lower bottom lip.

"Sherlock," I whisper. "Do you need to tell me something?"

No sound, no air, no breath. A moment later, his mouth opens - but not for speech. His nose is congested from tears, I realize.

"No," he mutters. "I'm fine."

I grapple with what to say. With how to say _'no, you are not fine - you are assuredly not fine' _- without making him feel like he needs to go on the defensive. Most of all I don't want him to clam up on me. Not now. Not when something is so wrong that every cell in my body is screaming with the weight of it. The truth of it.

"You don't seem fine, Sherlock. You must realize, at some level, that how you're behaving right now is very disturbing. Would naturally be disturbing to me, as your friend."

His teeth have now cut into his bottom lip hard enough that I think he's going to draw blood soon.

"Why does it _disturb_ you that I care about them? That I care about those kids?," his baritone voice is flat. Dead. "That I care about little boys who've been hurt like that? Why does it disturbs you that I can feel something for them? Do you just think I am beyond caring in general?"

_A 4 year old with hazel eyes, skinny and sad._

"I know that you care about them. I know that you care about people a great deal more than you let on. I also know that you're aware that's not what I'm talking about right now. That there are other things about your behaviour that make me think that something else is going on."

Sherlock looks to his lap. I clear my throat. Decide to bite the bullet. Ask the hard questions, since no one else ever will.

"Is there a reason - beyond impulsivity - for why you hit Mr. Thiesen this afternoon?"

"What do you mean?," Sherlock asks mockingly. And I suddenly see his mockery for what it is. A veil. A defense against anyone coming too close or seeing too much. "There is a reason for why humans do everything they do, even if the reason is illogical. Even if the reason is simple base emotion, there is a reason."

Sherlock's body is rigid which only pronounces his angularity and thinness as he speaks now. He's also leaning away from me, seemingly subconsciously. His entire _composition_ concerns me.

"But this case seems more personal to you than most. I guess what I am asking Sherlock is... do you understand what these kids went through?"

"What happened to them was awful, John," he hisses. "Isn't that enough?"

"I know that, Sherlock! But it doesn't explain, to me, why-"

"And you think, _what_? The fact that I am angry about what happened to them means something _more_? Something's wrong with me too? Because I'm Sherlock Holmes, and _I'm not supposed to feel anything for anyone?"_

"I don't think there is anything wrong with those children, Sherlock! I certainly don't think there is anything wrong with you for being upset about what happened to them; on the contrary! And if you are asking me if I think there is something wrong here, with this case, let me only say this once. That I certainly don't in hell believe that someone is somehow _less_ of a person, less worthy or less able to receive love - if they've been hurt in that way. Only the abusers are wrong. Not their victims. _Never_ their victims."

Sherlock's lips are now pulled tight like the strings on his Stradivarius.

I pick my next words carefully.

"You typically are able to better reign in your anger. Especially if it is likely to get you booted from a case. But you didn't - or couldn't - on this case, and that leads me to think that there is something very specific about this case that is making it hard for you to emotionally deal with whatever you are dealing with right now."

Sherlock's face is tight. The muscles in his arms stand out like cords. Corded, twine musculature. No fat.

When he finally speaks he looks me straight in the eye. His eyes are cold and blank and hauntingly dissociative.

"You think someone raped me too. When I was a little boy. Just like Toby."

It's not a question but a statement.

I try to swallow down the ache in my throat at his pronouncement. At the rawness of the words. At the ugliness of the sheer possibility that something like that could have happened to him.

_It's hard._

"I've considered that as a reason for your behaviour tonight, yes Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes are glistening and his mouth is contorted into something barely holding back a scream. But he stays completely silent, his chest rising and falling as if even breathing requires considerable strength for him.

"I think it's a possibility that I didn't want to consider for this entire case, to be honest - but one that makes sense given your behaviour with the children, your anger with Toby's father, your panic tonight. And _if it's true_ - and I want nothing more for me to be wrong here, please know that - but if it's true it explains a lot. About you. It makes sense. For why you've struggled with some of the things you've struggled with for so long. For why you push everyone away."

"'_Sense'_?," and his eyes are angry and hard, but when he speaks, it sounds like a sob, "How does it make sense? In your professional opinion, how would something like _that_ explain me away? Go on! You tell me how something like that makes sense! How it could ever make sense, Doctor Watson!"

And it's then that I realize: I've not insulted him.

**_No._**

The look in his eyes, the horror-

_Oh god. _

_It's true._

_You took a chance, John._

_A chance. _

_A shot in the dark._

_But you didn't miss, did you?_

_You got it in one._

I have never felt less pleased with myself for being right.

"So tell me! Go ahead. How does something like that define "_someone like me_"? How do you think I've _struggled_ all these years?"

My throat is paper. It's dry and it's parched and I feel like my knees have turned to jelly.

"I never said that something like that defined you, Sherlock. Or _could_ define you," I say slowly, knowing that any wrong word right now could set off a chain reaction of emotions that neither of us is prepared to face yet.

_Stay calm, stay calm. _

_Don't let this get out of hand._

"You said it made sense!"

And - _God_ - he looks like a wounded animal. He actually looks like I've betrayed him.

So risks be damned.

I just can't sit by and be quiet when he's so clearly hurting.

"Because it _does_! Because you don't take care of your physical body, Sherlock. You push anyone away who could possibly be interested in having a romantic relationship with you. Your eating is _atrocious_. It's like you try to keep yourself underweight, because I know you get hungry and I know you ignore that hunger! You ridicule others when they express an interest in anything sexual, as if the very idea is something beneath you. Need I continue?"

"I just can't get them out of my head, John. That's what I was going to tell you. That's _all it is._ But you don't believe that, do you? If I say that - _if I tell you that's all it is_ - will you think I'm lying?"

_And Sally Donovan calls him a psychopath..._

_God, what did even that label, that slur alone - do to him?_

Sherlock's face is made of stone and I have no idea what to say any longer. The fact that he's looking at me with an almost desperate need for a response has me unnerved.

"Answer me! You brought this up! You had to _know!_ So answer me! If I tell you that _nothing happened to me_ - that I was never hurt like that - will you believe me? If I _promise you_ that I'm speaking the truth?"

My throat is choked and I don't want to hurt him. He's the last person in the world I want to hurt.

Which is why I can't lie to him.

"No, Sherlock."

He suddenly looks so crestfallen, I think he's going to cry.

"I don't believe that 'nothing' happened at all. I think you very badly want to convince me of that, and you very badly want that to be the case, but I don't think that's the truth."

Sherlock suddenly looks furious with me, and a small part of me is almost fearful of his response. Especially considering I've said far more than I had ever intended tonight. More than I think he may be able to cope with, and so all I can do now is dumbly watch him as he closes his eyes, clenches his hands together.

After a moment, he tries to speak again. And I know right away what he's doing.

He's changing _tactics._

_And he's avoiding what he doesn't want to face._

"I want to go to bed, John."

I help him to his room.

He limps on his leg, and leans into my shoulder as I help him up the stairs.

* * *

My mind is a whirlwind of activity as I help Sherlock to his bed.

"There's likely to be some swelling around the site of the injury. But if it feels hot at any time-"

"You said that already," Sherlock says quietly.

"Because it's important. If you get an infection, in a deep glass wound - it could advance quickly. Yellowing is a bad sign too, so I'll apply some Polysporn in a few hours, okay?"

I get no verbal response. I don't even get a nod.

I bring over an extra duvet and put it around my flatmate. Once the main room light has been turned off, I can see the blackened smudging of exhaustion under Sherlock's eyes with greater pronouncement.

He really didn't get much sleep during this case. Almost no sleep. And no food.

"One last thing," - and I'm stalling, I know it. But he's hurting, and I know he's hurting. And I hate it. "Do you think you might start listening to me now when I tell you that you need to get more sleep? This whole...incident...could have been avoided with rest. Minimized, most certainly. You must realize that."

Sherlock shakes his head, petulant to the bone.

"It couldn't have?," I clarify.

"I was too angry," he mumbles.

Which is really not _that_ specific a response. No doubt he was furious at Kevin Thiesen.

Lestrade had to _restrain_ him.

I've never seen Sherlock angrier.

"I get it. Loud and clear. You need to sleep now, and you don't want to talk. Certainly not to me," I say resolutely. "If, however, you decide that you want to explain yourself then I will listen. I will sit down and I will listen, and I will do my best to understand. But I'm not talking in circles around this issue, Sherlock. I'm not going to pretend something so serious never happened."

He makes no motion, no sound.

_Sherlock has literally curled in upon himself._

"Sherlock - about earlier, I'm sorry if you thought-"

He pulls the duvet up to his neck now. Creating a physical barrier.

"I'm sorry I got so angry. I'll wash the floor in the morning, John. I'll make sure I get all the glass."

And like that - _just like that_ - I've been dismissed by Sherlock Holmes.

By promises of house work, no less.


	2. Everything Turned Blue

**Title - Shadow Child - Part 2**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **I take a step back, my heart fluttering in my chest. The look of rage I had seen a moment before is rapidly draining from my friend's face. "Did I - did I hurt you?," Sherlock clarifies, his eyes closed. Unwilling to look. / Hints of Johnlock. Angst. Warnings for child abuse/ non-con.

**Warnings/notes:** If you've gotten to the second chapter of this ficlet, you know what the warnings are already. Please proceed with caution.

* * *

At five in the morning I awake suddenly, my heart pulsing in my mouth. I sit up abruptly and realize my body feels damp.

Sweat.

And a lot of it. But I feel cold.

There are no accompanying memories of Afghanistan, however, and I scrunch up in the bed, clenching and unclenching my hands. Trying to force relaxation into my body. I almost laugh at the irony there: force, and relaxation.

_Force can never generate a state of relaxation. It generates the opposite._

Faintly now, I can hear music. Sorrowful music. Almost dirge-like in tone.

Sherlock is playing a piece I'm not familiar with, which doesn't surprise me given my relative lack of musical instruction and knowledge. But the music is ratcheting up my sense of unease, low in my gut. It sounds so mournful.

I slip from my covers and pad over to the hallway, stepping lightly down the staircase before I reach the bottom. I drop downwards and listen to the score, not wanting to interrupt his playing.

After a few minutes, my limbs feel heavy with dread and the music slows to a stop.

"You are not disrupting me," my friend says softly from around the corner. "You don't have to sit out in the hall."

I sigh and get to my feet, giving him an awkward smile as I enter the living room before depositing myself down into the loveseat and repositioning the Union Jack pillow. I try not to study him. Not overtly, at any rate. I focus my attention across to the battered wall. To the chrome yellow smiley face on the wall.

I try not to treat him differently from normal but the fact that I'm so concerned with giving him his space probably indicates that _I am._

It's very hard to know what to do. Especially when I'm a lousy actor. My emotions play on my face easily. And anger is one of the heavier emotions I'm feeling tonight, but the anger could never be with him. Not on this issue. I feel sick inside.

"I didn't think I was playing very loudly. I apologize if I woke you up," Sherlock mentions again, his line of sight connecting with my face - trying to read me.

I shake my head.

"You didn't. Wake me up, I mean. I couldn't sleep, I guess. Neither could you from the look of things."

Sherlock doesn't respond. He merely turns slightly away from me, his shoulders drawn high. He's holding the Stradivarius in his hands very stiffly. Tracing the lines of the instrument softly, as if it were a pet. A living creature.

"Sherlock," I say uncomfortably, suddenly irritated by my discomfiture. I don't know what to do, I don't even know if he needs anything I can provide, but I don't want to pretend that everything is okay when we both know that's really not true.

"How should I-"

I stop. I really am bad at this.

_Dealing with _this_._

I can calm a person whose been shot, sure. I can help set a bone, or get a soldier through the pain of re-popping in a dislocated shoulder. I can even deal with screaming and tears and excessive displays of pain when the pain is physical... But I'm not used to pain of this nature. And it is of a different nature. It seems less clinical, harder to name, harder to speak about. Harder to _think_ about. It shouldn't be. The stigma of if partly lies in the fact that no one even wants to comprehend that such events occur.

I wonder if that's partly what makes it so much more a crime. The fact that the sickness it invokes - even in those not directly victimized - makes people want to deny, to forget, to run away from the very idea of the subject.

I glance down at my hands, feeling a fresh surge of shame at this idea and at my own response. Because if I feel like this, _then how in the world is he-_

"I don't like this," Sherlock breaths. His voice has taken on an edge of - _something_ - some strange emotional quality I've never heard from him before. So rarely does he even become emotionally rattled, _but now-_

"Neither do I," I start, honestly. Honesty is never the wrong way to proceed. If I can't name something, can't grasp it, can't conceive of the ugliness of a situation, I can still be honest with him about who I am and not turn away. "What do you want me to do?"

Sherlock frowns, stares at the violin. He looks confused, as if I've spoken in a foreign language.

"You don't need to do anything, John."

"Sherlock," I whisper, "I can't just ignore-"

"Why _not_? I've known you for years without you knowing any of this, and I was just fine."

That bite. That acid. I heard it only marginally before but it is back in fine form now. Crisper than before. Of course, to be fair, he was previously panicking. Now the panic has abated and all we are left with is an overlay of shame that is so wrong coming from him, since he's the one hurting. That - and a newfound willingness to push me away. Not because it's me. I know that. I know it isn't because it's me; it's because the subject is _this_. This subject and these memories.

"Why couldn't you leave it alone?," he exhales at last.

"Because I am your friend, Sherlock."

The frown deepens. Sherlock seems to want to say something but stops himself before speaking aloud.

"What?," I test. I might not like the rawness of his tone, but I'll get further with him if he doesn't sensor himself right now.

"If you are my friend, then you'll put it out of your mind."

I take in a breath, hold it. My heart is pounding violently against my ribcage.

"How does that prove my friendship to you? Hmm? To _ignore_ something like this?"

Sherlock sits down in the opposing chair.

"Because I requested you to put it aside. Because I didn't want you to know in the first place!"

"Why does my knowing upset you so much?"

Sherlock swallows, his adam's apple bulging, holding, before pressing back down amidst a sea of milky white flesh.

"John-"

I wait patiently for his response.

"I don't know," he breathes, suddenly seeming very tired. "It's not rational. I know that."

I can feel my eyebrows raise in surprise.

"I don't think that's entirely true," I try, carefully.

Sherlock places his bow on the side table.

He looks almost confused.

He is so used to looking at every occurrence in an emotionally removed way. He's so used to pretending that emotions don't hold sway over his own being, that I am starting to suspect he's not very good at understanding his own emotional states when they do grab hold of him.

"Maybe you feel ashamed? Not that you should, but-"

"Why should I be ashamed?," Sherlock hisses suddenly, eyes flashing darkly. His mouth is contorted as if I had called him an ugly name. As if I've hurt his feelings.

"You shouldn't. Not at all. But many people who have experienced," and I hesitate to name it, I hesitate to call it by its correct name - _rape, childhood rape_, "abuse, as you did, often feel some measure of shame."

Sherlock rubs the soles of his palms against his knees. I wonder if his palms are sweaty. He so rarely breaks a sweat in the most extreme of circumstances - even when life or limb is on the line.

He's also not meeting my eyes.

"Why shame?," he says quietly. "Why do they feel shame?"

The question is so maddeningly childlike that my breath catches in my throat. I force it out a moment later, thankful he's talking to me at all.

If anything, I expected him to run off. Or ignore me. Petulantly ignore me until the weeks passed and the tension became so severe that he'd force me into reticence. A small part of me worried that he'd actually leave Baker street. It was a fleeting thought, but it was there.

"The victims, you mean? Why should they feel shame?," I clarify.

Sherlock winces, but nods, and I mentally berate myself for using that word at all. _Victim_. Sherlock would certainly not want me to see him that way.

I consider how to proceed.

"You must have read up on the psychology of those who have been hurt that way," I begin cautiously, feeling as if any wrong word might set my temperamental flatmate off. "Especially in childhood. Those are such important years, emotionally more than anything else. You're still forming your judgements about morality then. About right and wrong, and it's easy to prey on a child. It's easier to make a child feel complicit in something that's wrong, but also easier to convince them that they've somehow contributed to the crime. That they've somehow earned it."

"Mmm," he agrees, "so you think I'd reason through this sort of crime like a_ child_? I'm flattered, John, reall-"

"No," I growl, my voice low and commanding him to listen. "You know that's not what I'm talking about at all. You know that's not what I mean."

"Perhaps it's because I'm poor with emotions in general. Evidence yes, I can sort out the linear steps of a murder. But I rely on evidence to indicate sentiment. Emotions confuse me," he states cleanly, because this is now familiar territory. His inability to 'get' emotions is nothing new. Or so says Sherlock. I have my own reservations about how little he truly 'gets.'

_And what of sentiment?_

I can't help but wonder if he's putting his own feelings into the 'sentiment' camp. It would be an easy way of claiming an inability to discuss the matter at hand. He can't discuss emotions if he doesn't have _any_.

"You might not always understand your emotions, Sherlock, but don't try to tell me you don't have any. Emotions are part of what make us human..."

His jaw clenches and I realize I may have inadvertently insulted him.

"It's not healthy to ignore them. To supress them. That's all I'm saying."

He sits up straighter in his chair, scowling at the floor.

"I haven't _suppressed_ anything," he spits out.

I consider the minefield here. The bombs that lay in wait with that very pronouncement.

"Well, then I can't be the only person to know about this. Does Mycroft know? About this?"

Sherlock suddenly looks pained. His eyes shift swiftly to the left and harden.

"I take it that's a yes, then?"

My friends teeth are gritted tightly together now.

"He knows," he admits at last.

"Oh," I respond lamely.

"He saw," Sherlock whispers a moment later. "I know he saw. I know he's aware."

I suddenly feel queasy. Something distant and alarming is clamouring up in my brain, trying to tell me something. A faint feeling of foreboding.

"How," I clear my throat, "how old were you?"

Sherlock looks away. Seems conflicted. I can almost see the gears turning.

"Sherlock. Please tell me. How old were you when it happened?"

His eyes are strange. Steel girders coming down behind those ice-blue eyes. Keeping something terrible out.

"I don't know how to answer that."

It has lingered with him for years. For his whole adult life, likely. His response to the attacks of the children on our most recent case suggest child abuse of his own experience, but it had still been merely a suspicion up until a few hours ago. Mycroft's past comments, however, have indicated a perpetual or long lasting state of celibacy, and for a long time. Something I've always found odd. Not so much for the celibacy, if you want to know the truth. Sherlock is different in so many ways, I could have accepted that in and of itself. What got to me more so was Mycroft's lilted, almost testing tone. His seeming challenge for Sherlock to say something. Anything. To call his bluff. To _respond. _That is what struck me as odd.

What's more is that even now, as an adult, his attitude towards romance and more strongly - towards sex - remains almost chokingly hostile.

I'm starting to realize that this is the likely reason _why_.

"Do you mean when it started?"

I wince, feeling horribly slow.

God.

_This happened more than once._

"How long?," I ask weakly. Poisoned. "How long did this go on?"

Sherlock draws his legs up to his chest.

"Until public school. I stayed in a dormitory, so it stopped then. For the most part."

"'For the most part'? What does _that_ mean?"

Sherlock's spine is completely rigid. His arms are kept stiffly to his sides, rim rod straight.

"It means I had to come home during summer break."

My whole mind is swirling in pain,

_'It means I had to came home...'_

_Home..._

I clear my throat.

"How old were you when you left? 11? 12?"

"9," his response is clipped. "I was accelerated a few years. I had _incentive_, you see."

His eyes are hostile and something breaks apart in my heart.

"When did it _start_, Sherlock?"

I've been reduced to speak in the barest of sentences. Although my anger is barely tethered to something I can control, so that is probably for the best.

"I don't know," Sherlock breaths, his voice hitching on the last word. "Not really."

I press my hands against my eyes to clear the congestion. The pressure.

"Do you have difficulty remembering? What is the earliest you can remember?"

He hesitates.

"I was little. Very little. And everything turned blue."

His hands tremble at his sides.

It's then that I realize he's still wearing his jacket.

My throat feels sore.

"What does that mean? That everything "_turned blue_"?"

Sherlock's lip pinches against his teeth.

"Can you promise? Not to get mad?," he asks, and I realize something is off. I'm reminded of the tone I heard in his voice the previous evening. "I don't want you to get mad."

His voice sounds strange. Oddly regulated. Paced almost robotically.

_Definitely dissociative._

"I promise not to get mad at you, Sherlock," I say evenly, trying to keep my fear from showing. My own horror.

"I remember that my pajamas were wet," he says slowly. "There was a full moon, and I became a ghost. And it was blue."

_What the hell is going on?_

"Sherlock," stay strong. Just keep it together. "What does that _mean_?"

Sherlock rests his head against his knees in frustration.

"I mean, _in my head_ - I became a ghost. I crawled up the side of the wall. And I looked down, and I could see I was crying. My body was shaking, and I was crying, and then I focused on the moon, and the blueness. The entire room was blue, John. My face, my hands, the dresser. My bear. And then I wasn't scared anymore because if I was a ghost, nothing could hurt me."

I close my eyes.

A bear? A stuffed bear?

Such _sentiment._

He hadn't always been so distanced from human emotions, human connection. The need for comfort.

He was _forced_ to distance himself, to preserve his sanity.

"What you are describing sounds like classic depersonalization."

"I know. I experienced it a lot back then," he hesitates for a moment. "Sometimes, I still do." I have to strain to hear the admission.

"How old were you when that happened? When everything 'turned blue'?," I whisper. "How old, Sherlock?"

"I must have been about three. I couldn't have been much older."

I feel ill. Gut-sick.

Sherlock seems to be wary of something.

"Mycroft was still at home," he adds a moment later. "He left for school, abroad, shortly before he turned 11 and a half, so I couldn't have been much older than three when it began."

_Mycroft?_

My head is spinning.

"You said your pajamas were wet. Had you peed the bed?"

Sherlock hesitates.

"Sometimes I did. It made our mother mad. For years, I had to be punished for it. I just _didn't learn_."

I take his hand gently.

"What does that mean? What did 'punishment' mean?"

He lets out a pent up breath, but seems to be able to speak more freely a few seconds later.

"The hall closet had a lock, so it was ideal. Because mummy never hit. She did, however, think it was a dirty thing. And it was."

"What happened?"

"I would sit in the closet until I dried off. Sometimes for hours. I'd sit with the sheets and it would itch, and it would smell. I would know how dirty and disgusting I was. But it didn't stop it from happening."

_Of course it didn't fucking stop it from happening..._

Sherlock forces his eyes back to his violin.

"Even after I went away to school, it still happened. I couldn't stop it, as much as I tried. But I didn't share a room, thank God. So I was able to take care of it myself."

His cheeks are furiously pink. Bright, almost hot looking. As if he's been slapped.

I bolster my emotions, and try to offer my best friend some comfort.

"It's not unheard of in children, Sherlock. Sometimes the bladder doesn't-"

"No," he growls. "No. Mummy had me see doctors. Quite a few. Nothing was wrong with me. I was just obstinate."

"I don't think you were obstinate. I think you were frightened."

He seems to doubt my words.

"The doctors said nothing was wrong with me. They said it was something I should have been able to control. That I was just doing it to get attention."

_Just because nothing was _physically_ wrong with you doesn't mean everything was okay._

"It can also be triggered by emotional trauma, Sherlock," I say gingerly, a minute later. "It's fairly common in children who have been sexually assaulted. It's fairly well known, in fact."

Sherlock's cheeks are now bright red, his mouth firmly clenched together. He'd rather discuss bed wetting than this subject, apparently.

"It wasn't urine that night anyway."

His voice sounds constricted.

"What?"

"It was semen," he says stiffly, eyes averted to the floor.

I take a deep breath.

"You mean - when you were small? When you thought you were a ghost?"

_When you were completely dissociative and thought yourself to be dead?_

"Mmm. Yes. That night. I hadn't peed the bed. You asked."

I squeeze his hand so he'll continue.

"I thought he was bleeding. It was warm. Hot. And it was sticky, but my eyes were closed. I thought maybe it was blood, John. I didn't _understand_. I was scared, and I could taste blood in my mouth."

"You could taste blood in your mouth?," I reiterate dumbly, not knowing if physical abuse was an added dimension in Sherlock's already ugly childhood. Given what he's revealed in the last 24 hours, very little could surprise me at this point.

"I _thought_ it was blood. Maybe it wasn't," he whispers. "I don't think it was."

I have the strongest desire to pull Sherlock close to me, and hug him.

Tell him that it's not always going to hurt this much.

Because I know it _must._ There's no way that this doesn't hurt.

"I think it was...you know," his voice warbles and I nod.

_He doesn't want to name it. _

_Normally, he has no difficulty discussing sex in a clinical or removed sense._

_But this isn't just sex._

_This is something obscene._

_Cruel._

_And highly personal._

"I get it. Do you remember anything else?"

"I only remember bits and pieces. I don't remember actually, well - I don't remember anybody _doing_ anything to me. I just remember mostly the_ after_. The breathing. My crying. Pain. Not being real."

_'Not being real.'_

Oh, Sherlock.

"There were noises from him too, like crying. Not crying, of course. But I didn't know about sex then," he admits, as if this alone fills him with a sense of mortification. The redness now almost looks painted on his skin, as the rest of his face is white. Paler than usual.

"You were little more than a baby. Of course you didn't know about it."

He doesn't comment on that. Typically, he'd say something patronizing. How he - at three - was light years above the level of an _infant_.

Which is probably true, of course. But emotionally he was still just a very little child.

"The door opened, and the blue went away and the room turned orange, and I saw my brother's face. He had yellow pajamas on. Dinosaur pajamas. He was holding a glass of milk. He was asking for me. I remember hearing his voice and wanting him to come inside and pick me up and take me back to his room. I wanted the milk. My throat hurt and I wanted the milk. I wanted Mycroft to keep me safe."

Mycroft would have been about ten.

Not the adult I had been hoping for when Sherlock first started speaking.

Not if this was happening when Sherlock was little more than a toddler.

"Mycroft often came to bring me milk," Sherlock reiterates softly. "Sometimes he'd bring two glasses of milk. With Ovaltine. He'd put more in my glass, to make it stronger. I liked it that way. Sometimes he'd even sleep in my bed. After - after it happened. He'd rub my back if I couldn't stop crying."

My thoughts are swirling.

"When you were _little_, he'd sleep in your bed."

"Of course when I was little! Mycroft never-," and he suddenly looks furious.

I feel faint.

"What about your brother?"

"What about him?," the note of defensiveness hasn't departed.

"Did it happen to Mycroft, too? The abuse?"

Sherlock suddenly looks blank. Then wary. Then agitated.

"Of course not!"

He gets up and moves into the kitchen suddenly, obviously trying to end the conversation.

I follow behind by a few paces, giving him physical space.

"Sherlock, I want to help you. Help you both-"

"You don't need to help "us both"! Nothing would have happened to Mycroft!," Sherlock hisses. "Why would anyone have hurt _Mycroft_?"

Just like that, I feel sucker punched.

"I don't know! Why would anyone have hurt_ you_?!"

He's moved from defensiveness to anger so suddenly.

_Such terrible anger._

_He's always seemed angry at Mycroft._

_Is this why?_

He finally sits down at the table looking spent. Drawn and thin. Hollowed out.

He's always looked thin, but now it seems to be an aching kind of thinness.

I take a seat across from him.

"Tell me. You've got to get it out, Sherlock."

Sherlock's whole body is the very picture of misery.

"He'd bring me milk. Tell me everything was going to be okay."

"But it wasn't. And part of you is still very angry with him. Even now. Is it because he was unable to stop it from happening?"

He seems thrown, lost. Unsure now of what he wants to say.

"He'd bring me milk and sometimes after everyone else had gone to bed, he'd come into my room. He'd help me change into new clothes. He'd sleep with me," he suddenly flushes a deep red. "You know what I mean. Not in a bad way."

I nod in understanding.

"He'd stay with you, afterwards. Until you fell asleep."

"Yeah," and Sherlock's voice croaks. "Me by the wall, him to the open. To keep me safe. But it was too late. It was always _too late_."

My heart flutters sadly in my chest.

10 year old Mycroft was burdened with such responsibility, and such fear.

_And who knows what the hell he lived through, himself._

"I'm sure he wanted to keep you safe, honey," and the endearment slips out too quickly, too easily, and it's because all of this bloody hurts to even hear about. I can't comprehend how he feels. _And knowing that -_ I take a deep breath, and try to avoid calling attention to the slip. "I'm sure he really wanted to, Sherlock. Even to this day, he seems to be concerned with that very issue. Of keeping you safe."

Sherlock seems to be processing my words hesitantly. As if he is debating their truth.

"But he was only a child too," I add. "He was bigger than you, sure, but he was just a little boy himself."

"I know that! I know how old Mycroft must have been. I can do basic math!"

I give a hesitant nod, because the tension in the room right now is so thick it's almost unbearable.

"It's also unlikely that he wasn't hurt. You realize that, right? Typically, abuse of this sort isn't limited to-"

Sherlock lets out a strained laugh.

"No, no, _no_ John. You've got it all wrong. Mycroft was loved. _Adored_. No one ever laid a finger on him."

"Sherlock, Mycroft was still - _minimally_ - exposed to an emotionally sick and abusive-"

"He wouldn't have touched Mycroft!"

"Who wouldn't have?"

"Mycroft's father!"

I am confused.

Terribly confused.

"_What_?"

Sherlock takes a sip of water from his glass. His hands are shaking anew. His eyes fall away from mine.

"I was a bastard child."

"I don't understand. Your parents were married, were they not? And it hardly matters if they weren't, but-"

"No. _No_. I was a mistake, John! The worst mistake you can make. Our mother had an affair."

Something awful is crystallizing in my mind.

"So you are _half_ brothers."

"_Mmm_," Sherlock agrees. "To Mycroft's displeasure. You'll never hear him refer to me as anything other than his_ little_ brother."

I disregard even telling Sherlock that this is actually a good sign. Showing a willingness to be close, rather than distant.

"So your mother was - what? Married to Mycroft's biological father? Obviously not to your biological father."

"Yes," he breaths harshly, as if the very air itself is heavy. "I never even _knew_ my biological father. I don't even know how well our _mother_ knew my biological father. I don't even know his name."

I don't comment on that.

"So Mycroft's father hurt you. But he didn't hurt Mycroft. Because Mycroft was - what? 'His son'? And he didn't see you the same way? Is that what you are trying to tell me?"

Not a question.

_Because something vile is already forming in my mind._

_Something that I know is correct as assuredly as I know my own name._

Sherlock's fingertips are white on the glass. He takes another sip of water.

_Sometimes pedophiles redirect their perversion onto other children, sparring their own biological children._

"He loved Mycroft. He loved Mycroft _properly_. So did Mummy. Don't you see, John? Mycroft was planned, and he was_ proper_. He was supposed to be here. They actually had to try for an entire year to have him! I was _not_ supposed to be here. I never should _have been here at all_. I was the biggest mistake of our mother's life and the biggest shame of the entire Holmes' family."

"You were _not_ a mistake," and my voice is suddenly harsh. Commanding. "You were an innocent little boy!"

"I wasn'tinnocent-"

"Sherlock!"

"I wasn't _innocent!_-," and he suddenly bangs his curled fist on the table, spilling the water. "Don't argue with me on that! Mycroft knew, and how our mother knew and no one stopped it because I was the _mistake_. And how could she protest, really? Say no to him? When she had hurt _him_ so badly? How could she tell him what to do with the pathetic little add-on child that never should have been born in the first place?"

His voice is rising, and all I feel safe to do is stay quiet and let him vent.

"You wanted to hear, didn't you? What he said, _when he did it?_ When he did all those disgusting things to me? When he _made_ me do that with him? You wanted to know?"

I can taste bile.

"Sherlock. Please stop."

Sherlock lets out a garbled, horrible cry-laugh.

"You wanted to know! Last night and this morning! Think talking makes things all better don't you? But you really have no idea!"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to push you! I just didn't want you to feel-"

"What? Didn't want me to feel _ashamed_? What the fuck do you know about shame, Dr. Watson? What do you even know about_ any of it_? Of not being deserving enough to cry, to say no, to ask for _anything to stop?_ I was lucky enough that she hadn't gotten rid of me when she could. Everyone knew it. Mycroft knew it!"

I inhale rapidly.

"I don't know anything," I admit quickly, trying to calm him down. "I don't know anything about what it's like to be hurt that way, and to feel like how you must have felt. How you feel."

"Exactly! You just think it's cathartic! You think I need to talk about it?"

I grab his hands, stilling them.

_I didn't want to hurt you. _

_I'm so sorry, Sherlock. _

_I just didn't want you to think that you had to hide this from me._

Hopefully my eyes say more than my voice ever can.


	3. Against a sea of ivy and brick

**Title - Shadow Child - Part 3**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **I take a step back, my heart fluttering in my chest. The look of rage I had seen a moment before is rapidly draining from my friend's face. "Did I - did I hurt you?," Sherlock clarifies, his eyes closed. Unwilling to look. / Hints of Johnlock. Angst. Warnings for child abuse/ non-con.

* * *

I emerge from the shower and dress quickly, quietly. The shower was warm, but my insides still feel cold. I actually feel worse than I did last night. Weaker, and so much more concerned.

When I return to the living room to locate my keys and wallet, I notice that Sherlock has fallen asleep on the couch. I pad as silently as I can to retrieve what I need. Gently, I move the Stradivarius off his lap, and pull the afghan throw over his body - grateful when he doesn't stir.

_His under-eyes are marked by two half-moons of blue. Almost purple in intensity._

Sherlock looks wan. His face, additionally, looks thinned out more than it ever has before... The ridgeline of the bones of his face are even more prominent now, and the sunken look around his temples is alarming. Without thinking, truly without thinking, my fingertips connect with the bones and I tentatively feel the temple area of his skull, before lightly stroking down to his cheek, and rubbing the pad of my thumb over his face.

_My god, Sherlock. _

_I am so sorry, love._

Quickly, almost as if stung by a wasp, I pull my hand back when my inner dialogue catches up with my physical actions.

_What am I doing?!_

Sherlock's lips are dry. His skin is overtly warm. He's probably terribly dehydrated.

I sigh, and scrawl out a quick note for my friend - reminding him to drink at least two glasses of water when he rises - doctor's orders! - before laying it against the coffee table where he is likely to see it upon awakening.

* * *

The book store is moderately busy, and I say a silent prayer that I will not be accosted by a sales person as I wander the aisles.

Any other day? Sure.

Just not today.

My eyes scan the rows, based on subject matter.

**_Philosophy...Physics._**

**_Psychology._**

I stop and look at the word - almost as if I cannot grasp its meaning - before turning down the aisle and scanning the books for titles, for themes.

Eventually, I find what I am looking for and turn around, furtively watching others and trying to confirm that I am not, likewise, being watched.

_No one around. Good._

The first book that I pick up reads: _"Forbidden Relationships: Helping your Partner overcome Childhood Incest"_ and is a book about, apparently, the romantic issues that often present in a relationship with an adult survivor of childhood sexual abuse.

I feel odd even holding it in my hands, because Sherlock and I don't have _that_ kind of relationship and we never will. And yet the chapter headings and the information contained within is quite accurately describing a lot of what I am feeling, romance aside. Because, truthfully, I am feeling frustration. Helplessness. A wordless type of horror. Fear to further discuss the issue. Feel of alienating the sufferer.

Guilt.

_Guilt._

I stare at the word, and feel my heart slam into my ribcage.

Sherlock needs help. He needs something more than what I can give him.

_A professional, probably._

I put the book into my basket, before looking onwards for additional material. I find a few books on male rape and associated stigma, and decide that they could also be helpful.

* * *

When I get to the checkout station the sales girl gives me a warm smile.

"Have you found everything you were looking for today, sir?"

I nod slightly, my smile tight-lipped. Probably more awkward than it should be considering I am not doing anything wrong; I still hand over the materials with an alarming sense of reservation for a person not doing anything wrong.

_That right there?_

_That's shame. _

_You don't want a perfect stranger to read the titles, to think of the subject..._

_Or possibly, you don't want her to think that you were the victim of sexual assault._

_And if purchasing a few books is too much for you..._

_How the hell do you think Sherlock feels?_

**_You are just buying books. Books._**

**_You are not doing anything wrong._**

**_So man up, Watson._**

Surreptitiously, I watch the girl's smile falter slightly as she scans in the purchases. She has a warm, open face and cannot possibly be more than 19 years of age. Some part of her demeanor reminds me of a young Molly Hooper. Innocent, and very sweet. Eager to help.

I clear my throat, trying to dispel the tension.

"That will be on debit," I say cleanly, before she can pose the question.

The less talking, the better.

"Do you have a Bigley's Buyers Card, sir?"

I shake my head (_I do, but it is somewhere in my wallet, and I just want to get out of here_), and quickly insert my debit card into the chip machine. The transaction goes through rapidly, and I take the books (now enclosed in a paper bag) from the girl quietly.

"Have a great day, sir," she says almost tentatively, her eyes showing softness and empathy.

I mutter my thank you and return the sentiment, before I hightail it out of the shop. I walk two blocks before I come across a small café; the sign below the awning reads: _"Authentic Italian Lattes-Cappuccinos-Espressos and more!"_ in curlicue script, and the interior of the building is low lit, almost closed off from the street and the hubbub of noise and activity. It seems soothing.

_It seems like what I need to get my head in order._

I go inside and order a large mocha and a biscotti, and then sit down at a booth near the back of the establishment. When I have my beverage and treat, I pull the books out of the bag and begin to read.

* * *

Three mochas and two biscotti later, I am halfway through the first book - the one on working through romantic relationships with a previous victim of abuse - when my cell phone begins to chirp. I glance down quickly, surprised that Sherlock would be calling me at all. Honestly, I would have bet that he'd want to be left alone for a fair amount of time, just to calm down, and sort his thoughts. Like I seemingly need to do.

When I pull up my text messages a few moments later, however, I internally cringe.

**We need to talk - MH**

_Damnit. _

_Damn it._

This is what Sherlock would precisely _not_ want. He would not want this aspect of his life to be discussed. Especially not in his absence.

I feel torn on how to proceed.

A good part of me wants to talk to Mycroft. Desperately wants answers.

But another part of me feels extremely protective of Sherlock's emotions, and his right to privacy.

Finally, I text back:

**That may not work for me tonight.**

I have a pretty good suspicion as to what Mycroft wants to discuss, and I can't help but feel agitated just thinking about how quickly things have devolved in less than a day. Putting the books back into my bag (and wrapping up an extra chocolate biscotti for Sherlock in a separate bag), I nervously tap my fingers against the melamine counter and wait for a response.

Mycroft never drops any issue he feels is of seriousness, and nothing could be much more serious than what happened to Sherlock.

Twenty seconds later, my phone buzzes with a new message:

**Please, John. Let me explain - MH**

_How did he figure it out?_

_Figure out that I knew? So quickly_?

Sherlock and I have gone over the flat for signs of bugs or wires, or general surveillance. We do so rather routinely, and we haven't found anything in quite a long time.

_And while CCTV surveillance would merely show that I had visited a bookshop, it wouldn't give any-_

**No.**

_Mycroft, you infuriating bastard._

_My account! My bank account. _

_He must have been able to determine what I had purchased._

_**I charged the books to my debit account rather than paying in cash.**_

Checking the receipt, I feel an undeniable surge of anger. I can see that the book titles are somewhat modified, and shortened in length, but you can make out the last names of the authors and the basic titles of the purchases. It would be easy enough to search codes if someone were so inclined.

And obsessively observant.

_Or obsessively nosy._

**I need to get home.** ** - JW**

I swallow down the last bit of mocha, now cool, and leave the restaurant hurriedly - just as my phone buzzes again:

**I will keep this short - MH**

When I get outside, it is dusk, and the lights of the nearby store windows are illuminated in the blue-black of the cooling night. Across the street from the Italian café lies the dark automobile, shiny and awaiting my arrival like a sea serpent waiting for its prey.

I grit my teeth as I reach for the door handle.

_There is no way Mycroft will leave me alone, otherwise..._

* * *

The driver does not take me to The Diogenes Club. Nor some industrialized building complex.

Instead, we drive up to a cobblestone pathway where manicured hedges dot the driveway. A wrought iron fence surrounds a fairly impressive patchwork of greenery and grass. In the near distance I can see a venetian red brick building, with ivy trellising the exterior.

We pull up to the entrance and as the vehicle stops I see the door open to reveal Mycroft's presence. He watches me carefully, his face looking rather inscrutable.

I pick up my belongings, and angrily follow him inside.

* * *

"You can't just force someone's hand every time you feel like discussing something with them, Mycroft! That's not-"

"In good taste?," he murmurs, his eyes hawkish. Severe.

I let out a small expulsion of breath.

"I need to get home."

He nods, sagely. As if agreeing with my assessment.

"You absolutely_ need_ to, is that right?"

"Please don't be an ass!," I growl.

Mycroft's mouth purses into something distinctly off-put as he walks me through the entryway and into a separate room, separated from the hallway by a door that looks fashioned out of crystal. It is an art deco style. I can only guess at what it must have cost: undoubtedly, an exorbitant figure.

"They were the doors from our childhood nursery," he explains, calmly, his line of sight matching up with my own.

"What?," I ask stunned, only starting to realize with any certainty that this home must be, in fact, Mycroft's.

It has a different feel to it than Sherlock's space. It is impeccably tidy, and rather rich in colours and fabrics and materials. It screams wealth to Sherlock's hodgepodge of curios and preserved insect bodies, skulls and knives.

"Beautiful, aren't they?," and Mycroft nods his head towards the detailed art deco door, before opening it up to reveal an impressive study and library, "Sherlock always used to think so. As a child, he would sit with water colours and paint windows, doors, buildings. For a long time, I thought he was committed to becoming an architect. Or an artist."

I stare at the glass as I move inside, marvelling at the detailing.

"That is from your...nursery? Seems a bit-"

_Over the top for a children's room._

Mycroft maneuvers into the room and points to a seat where I can sit.

"Mine and Sherlock's, both. We had the same nursery as infants," he laughs, but it sounds sour, and he takes an opposing chesterfield seat for himself, pulling forward a small cart before he settles in to the space. It is a bronze cart, topped with a set of brandy glasses and a decanter.

"Grand Marnier?," and he offers the decanter as a means of confirming my response.

"I've had over a liter of coffee beverages in the last two hours, Mycroft. I don't need any more fluids tonight. But - thank you. I appreciate the offer."

His smile is terse, tight, as he pours out several ounces for himself. When he doesn't speak for a few moments, I start to get antsy.

"Mycroft - please don't drag this out."

Mycroft's eyebrow quirks in question.

"'This'? Which _this_ are you referring to John?"

I feel my hands curl into fists.

"Don't make this harder than it has to be. You know what I'm referring to!"

Mycroft's face studies my own; I feel like I'm being scanned by an x-ray machine.

"Ahh," he says lightly. "So you _haven't_ progressed to having a romantic relationship with my brother yet. Good to know. It does - I admit - alleviate one of my primary anxieties regarding his emotional state."

I suddenly feel very, very dizzy.

"What?," I rasp.

"A romantic relationship," Mycroft repeats more firmly this time. "The start of something skirting a physical relationship. I thought that's what I would be dealing with, but I can see I have jumped the gun, slightly. Not to worry - I wasn't expecting anything excessively intense at this stage. Nothing too extreme, of course. But I was concerned all the same, because Sherlock is not ready for a sexual relationship. Even with you."

I feel my face colour and heat up, and my heart starts to pound wildly.

"Are you deranged?! I am not...having any such relationship with Sherlock!"

Mycroft frowns at his glass, swirling the brandy in a clock-wise direction.

"Are you interested in one?"

I back up in my seat, almost alarmed, and close my eyes. I then count to 10, backwards, before continuing on.

"You _are_ insane," I get out - sounding more angry than anything else, even though I feel a keening need to cry.

"Is that so?," he asks almost placidly. "It is "insane" of me to consider the possibility that you care intensely about my brother? Have feelings for him?"

"Of course I care about him intensely! He's my best friend! But I don't want to have se-," I stop abruptly. "I'm not _gay_, Mycroft. I care about your brother, yes. But I will not be pushing him into a sexual relationship anytime soon."

Mycroft nods, then picks up a notepad from his paper.

"How was the book? By a Dr. Jeffery Issacs, was it? The one on assisting a romantic or significant other through," and he looks back to his pad, "the _'trauma of childhood incest and sexual abuse'_? Interesting choice of reading material for a man not interested in pursuing a romantic relationship with Sherlock."

I close my eyes yet again; I don't even want to look at his face right now.

"You are not even denying what happened?," I gasp, feeling hollowed out. My eyes are stinging. "You are not even pretending that you don't know why I got those books?" My eyes reopen, but the scene before me is blurred by the tears that have flooded my sight.

"How can you be so calm about this?"

Mycroft takes an additional sip of alcohol.

"When does denying truths make a situation better for anyone?"

I stand up suddenly, furious.

"You cannot be serious! I had...no idea, Mycroft! No idea that he was in that much pain! We work on the most horrific cases, but you didn't even bother to give me a heads up. To let me know what might tip him over the edge!"

"And why should I have done so? Was it my duty to inform you of Sherlock's dirtiest and most closely held secrets? Was that my brotherly right? To go behind his back and talk to you about all the dark things of his past? Things, mind you, he always wanted to keep hidden from the world?"

I move quickly into his space, my chest squeezing horribly.

If he keeps this act up for much longer, I am going to have a heart attack.

As if stands, I feel as if I may faint any moment now.

"_Dirty?_ That wasn't_ Sherlock's _dirty secret! That was your father's sick perversion! And - _damn you, Mycroft!_ - you just sit there as if this situation - my knowing this disgusting, horrific history! - is just some niggling annoyance in your day! As if your own brother - _your own little brother_ - is somehow just mildly put out by this! As if it is a nothing thing - something that hasn't impacted his entire adult life!"

Mycroft puts down his drink.

"It hasn't impacted his entire life. Sherlock's performed admirably, given what he had to live through."

I feel like throwing something.

"Admirably? He pushes EVERYONE away! He insults people to ensure that no one gets too close. He treats his physical body as if it is of absolutely no importance. Only his mind matters to him, and even that is something that he has honed into a machine so that he can delete any piece of information he doesn't want to remember. But the human mind doesn't work that way, Mycroft! You think it hasn't impacted his life? Who would he be today if he hadn't lived through what he had lived through?! He might have become a husband, or a father! Or maybe - he would have just been happy!"

"Do you think your 'what-if's' helps matters, John? To ask those sorts of questions? He coped as well as he could cope!"

I suddenly feel the heat and rage drain from my body, like water swirling down a drain. Mycroft's tone, his body language, his words - are all defensive.

He is _defending_ Sherlock. He is defending Sherlock's at-times off-putting mannerisms. He is defending the very fact that my best friend is so caustically reactive, and secretive.

He is defending the wounded brother he could never save, and all at once I feel exhausted.

"I realize that. I do," and I pause for a moment, to get a bit of oxygen into my cells. "And - _God_ - I am not criticizing Sherlock. I'm not. I just had no idea. I didn't even consider that he had been hurt like that."

Mycroft seems to study me for a moment, unsure of how to proceed.

"Did he ever get help?," I ask suddenly, needing to know. Needing to hear the answer.

"As soon as I had the means to remove him from that situation, I did so, John. When I came of age, I was able to access a certain amount of my trust fund, and I moved away from the family estate. 6 months later, I ensured that Sherlock was with me. So yes, he got help. I got him out of that home!"

The defensiveness has not abated. If anything, it has increased. I push my fingertips against my eyes, trying to relieve the pressure forming in my skull.

"No, no. I mean - did he ever see someone? As he got older? Did he ever talk about it properly with a doctor?"

Mycroft sighs. He suddenly looks about 10 years older.

"After Sherlock had been with me for a few years - after the dust had settled, so to speak - I tried to get him to discuss certain things. I certainly didn't want him to feel coerced into talking to me. He refused to talk to me all the same, no matter what tactic I attempted to get him to open up."

"And it is admirable that you reached out to him, Mycroft. I am not in any way asserting that you didn't help him as much as possible, but did he ever - you know - see a psychologist? A child therapist?"

Mycroft's eyes have taken on a faraway look, and he seems to hesitate for a moment before proceeding.

"If I tell you something - something very pivotal to explaining my concern for Sherlock - will you promise not to repeat a single word of it to my brother? He can never know that I've mentioned the subject. He would never forgive me if he knew that I was discussing certain...events...with you tonight."

I feel my mouth go dry.

"What can possibly be worse than what I've learned? What can possibly top that?," I question, my voice cracking.

"If one is hurt, but is strong in their own being, in their own heart - it is hard for others to see them as victims. But if they expose their heart as being damaged, or broken - it is much more frightening. And Sherlock would never want you to pity him, John - even though my biggest worry if that he _is broken_. And that he will never have the type of life he should have had the right to experience - namely because he is too scared to accept that he _wants_ it. Or, more accurately - to accept that it is okay to want it. That there is nothing shameful in wanting a partner. Wanting what others want."

The words are cryptic, and I find myself getting painfully agitated.

"Sherlock isn't broken," I insist, firmly.

Mycroft looks down at his lap, refusing to meet my eyes.

"I knew it would be hard. To care for Sherlock after what he had lived through, but I couldn't see any alternative. He was adamant John - completely insistent - that we never breathe a word of what occurred to _anyone_. I actually scheduled an appointment for him to see a psychiatrist shortly after his 11th birthday - which was a few months after he had come to live with me. I was only 18 myself. In many ways, almost a child myself, you see."

He looks hesitant to continue, and I flash him a sad, small smile. 18 is terribly young, especially to be pushed into the sudden role of guardian to a younger, traumatized sibling.

"I recall the near-hysteria on the morning I told Sherlock that we would be taking a cab into the city to see a doctor. When I told him the nature of what he would be expected to talk about...he started to cry. And when I tried to calm him, he ran from the room, and out of the flat. I searched for two hours, and by necessity had to cancel the appointment."

Mycroft slowly gets up, and walks across the study to stand near the bay windows. The sun has now completely set, and the lamps lining the street outside have turned on to illuminate the roads.

"I let it go. What was the alternative? He was almost hysterical, John. And as the time passed, he became more intransigent. More resistant to even allude to what had occurred, never mind discuss it properly. I let it go, thinking - perhaps mistakenly - that he would heal with time, and without any insistence on my part that he speak about the ordeal. I knew intellectually that is must have impacted his development, because even at 11, he was reluctant to even accept a hug. His body would clench, he would become immobile. Rigid. But I had no frame of reference for what would, or could, be normal for Sherlock. The abuse had started when he was so little, you see. It had gone on for so long, that I worry - even to this day - that his entire personality and temperament has been created out of necessity as a means to combat the constant threat he felt as a little boy. I don't know if he can change certain aspects of who he is, now."

My mind recalls Sherlock's words from the morning.

Speaking about being three years of age, and thinking himself dead.

Believing he had turned into a ghost.

_Or maybe simply wishing he had._

"For about two years we soldiered on in a sort of silent pact. I would not press him on the subject, and he would continue to grow and learn and be himself, in safety - knowing, of course, that he could always confide in me if he felt the need to discuss what had happened. But growing up is hard, John. It is hard for many children, and doubly so for those who are dealing with the repressed feelings that I knew he was dealing with. And so my little brother continued to grow, in every way you'd expect of a child his age."

Mycroft stops abruptly, and takes a deep breath.

I can sense that he is steeling himself up for what is to come next.

"Shortly after he turned 13, I realized he was starting to go through puberty, if he hadn't already started the process. I started giving him even more space. I did not discuss, in any way, what sort of changes he would experience because I knew he was already aware of what to expect."

There is a note of self-recrimination in Mycroft's tone.

"What happened?"

"_Adolescence_ happened," Mycroft grits out. "I didn't even realize he was struggling so much until it was almost too late, John. Too late to save him."

I feel foggy and confused, and my expression must reflect this confusion.

"You see, it was when Sherlock was 13 that I realized that it was unlikely he would ever be able to have a normal - or shall I say_ adult_ - relationship with another person. Certainly not a sexual one."

My guts twist up into a knot, and I take in a breath of air. Bile is climbing up my throat.

"Why?," I gasp. "What happened when he was 13?"

"He was extremely depressed with developments that he could neither avoid nor slow. I have ascertained that it was likely due to the normal sexual changes he knew to expect. He was not coping well with even the prospect of their arrival, apparently."

Fear is trickling down my back in the form of cold sweat.

"I should have known something disturbing was coming, simply by the way he attempted to stultify each part of himself that experienced any sort of physical change. He had become almost mute during the period when his voice was changing its timber from that of a child to a young adult, for example. For months, he barely said a word. He would write his requests down on paper. Reports started to come home from the school, but getting him to see that...it could not continue as it had? No, he wouldn't accept that. He would patently ignore me. And after his voice had broken - well, then, it was almost worse. He seemed so ashamed of the fact that he sounded so different that I was actually at a loss as to how to soothe him. His _own voice_ repulsed him, John, and his own physical growth scared him. He was growing rather quickly at that age, and so he started to eat less - _markedly less_ - in an attempt to stop his development. It was frightening to see my brother - who had always been slender - start to look gaunt. Almost skeletal."

**_It's nothing new. _****_His disinterest in eating._**

"How bad did it get?," I ask quietly, dreading the answer.

"Bad enough that I was forced to get him help. Of course, I noticed that he started despising any general change marking his transition from child to adult, but there was nothing I could do to stave off the progression. Nothing anyone could do. Sherlock, however, believed that eating less would slow the process. I still recall one night when I expressed concern that his poor eating was possibly stunting his growth, and he actually _smiled._ He almost looked relieved. Soon after, I threatened to have him assessed by the adolescent mental health division for anorexia nervosa. The threat alone seemed to be effective - as you can imagine. He started to eat a microscopically larger amount, and for a while - that is how the two of us operated. He would eat barely enough to keep a sparrow alive, but provided he kept his weight stable and did not continue to lose weight, I let the issue go."

"But he still doesn't eat properly."

Mycroft nods in my direction, accepting my words as truthful.

"His eating remained impoverished on the whole, but he kept to the deal I had proposed, and for several months subsisted largely off of protein shakes. He was growing in height, however, and since I was fairly certain that he wasn't engaging in any purging behaviours, I accepted the situation as acceptable. Certainly not ideal, but better than it had been before I had threatened to have him assessed. I guess, I assumed that after a few years he would grow more comfortable in his new body. That didn't happen."

Mycroft turns away from the window then, and runs a hand through his hair. He actually looks nervous when he continues.

"One morning, after coming home late from a business meeting, I found my brother in his room with the lights turned off. I knew something was wrong the moment I entered the flat. When I listened carefully I could hear that he was crying. And Sherlock never cried. Not even when he had been small and he was being abused."

"Is that when he had...hurt himself?," I get out my question in chunks of raw sound; Mycroft's gaze is pained when he meets my line of sight a moment later.

"John," and when he continues on, he looks torn, "What I am going to tell you - above all else - is information that I request you never repeat or discuss with my brother. You may want to. You may even think it is helpful if he talks about it. I assure you, what I need to tell you next will not be easy for me to get out. If Sherlock were to be made aware that you knew, he would be mortified. And extremely distressed."

Mycroft is now quiet, as if waiting for my assurance.

"I promise I will not mention what you are about to tell me with Sherlock. Not unless he brings it up, of course," I clarify slowly, my heart pounding far too loudly in my ears.

Mycroft gives a pained laugh.

"Oh, it is highly unlikely _that_ will ever happen. Especially since it relates to an occurrence that my brother finds extremely shaming. I can only imagine how much more complicated his feelings regarding such an event have become in the years since it has passed."

"I will not bring it up, Mycroft," I reiterate, softly. "I promise you that."

The taller man sighs, brushing his hands over his suit jacket, but seemingly accepting my words.

"The event that triggered my brother most deeply was completely normal. To most others, it would seem to be almost innocuous, on the whole. It was the night my brother first experienced a nocturnal sexual response," Mycroft's voice is extremely soft. Barely above a whisper. "He did not deal well with the experience."

If someone wound rope across my chest and restricted my lungs from fully taking a breath, I could not feel more lightheaded.

_Oh Sherlock..._

"You explained it to him, though? That it was totally normal and healthy? Surely he understood that he couldn't have controlled it?," I whisper.

"Of course I did," Mycroft replies tersely. "In as few words as possible actually, as the subject was highly distressing to him. Through his crying, I came to learn that he had suffered from a rather vicious nightmare before the event itself. He also did not learn of what had occurred until he had gotten up to use the washroom. That additional component only increased his shame, I believe. After a few short exchanges, all I could ascertain for certain was that he felt disgusting - which he told me in very caustic terms which I do not want to repeat out of privacy for my brother. He also explained in a rather disturbing moment of hysteria of how he might possibly damage his lower body - with a knife - to keep such an event from occurring in the future."

I suddenly feel sick, and stand abruptly. My face and chest feel prickly with heat.

"I need to- I need to get back home."

"John? You've grown pale. Please sit down."

"He's at home! And he's feeling all this shame, right now! Someone should be with him!"

I stagger across to the wall, and turn against it, breathing harshly.

_The amount of self-hatred he must have felt. The amount of self-revulsion..._

**_Do not cry._**

**_Do not cry!_**

"I am almost done. Just a few more moments. But what I have to say next is perhaps more important than anything else. So please do not leave just yet."

"Please tell me...he didn't try to hurt himself that way," I get out, a few minutes later.

Mycroft hesitates.

"Mycroft! What happened? What did he _do_ to himself?"

"We never spoke of it again - what he had told me, I mean. I chalked it up to his hysteria at the time. But I could clearly discern that even the mere prospect that the situation could repeat itself was extremely distressing to Sherlock. I did what I could to minimize his shame, of course, but I knew the likelihood was that it would continue to happen. Unfortunately enough for him."

Mycroft drinks the last of the brandy, his cheeks slightly pink.

"The next day, he was pale - anemic looking, almost. He wouldn't look me in the eye, and I could tell he had cried a fair deal since I had spoken to him, because his eyes were extremely swollen. I tried to make light of the situation by that point, and decided to keep him home from school. It didn't seem to help his mood, and he refused to eat his breakfast, and then later on, his lunch. When I came home for our evening meal, he was back in his room, sitting in his cabinet, like he used to do as a child. He refused to eat the food I brought up for him, although he did sip at water. The following morning, when he refused his meals again, I realized we had a bit of a problem on our hands."

I sit up in the loveseat, feeling an odd sense of foreboding.

"Four days later, I had had enough. Even in that short time, I could see that he was rigidly avoiding all forms of nutrition, and though four days without food is a far cry from starvation, I was concerned where his behaviour was leading. I knew he needed help, and so against his pleading, I took him to see the psychiatrist I had first contacted two years previously. I explained the basics of what had occurred to the doctor - and had stressed that he was finding it difficult to cope with the nature of the event and found it highly shameful. Still, I was encouraged to bring him in later that afternoon. Which I did. Surprisingly, since Sherlock refused to let me leave his sight, I had to sit through the entire session - which revolved around discussing the emotional and physical dynamics of adolescence. Or rather, it amounted to a lecture on male adolescent biology, since my brother refused to acknowledge any question that was posed to him."

"That must have been extremely awkward for a young boy," I mutter, feeling fresh concern blossom in my chest for my flatmate. "I can understand why he wouldn't have felt comfortable to discuss the subject. Especially not with his older brother in the room."

"No doubt it was. I found it awkward enough myself, and I was considerably older and able to deal with the subject emotionally. But Sherlock became, if anything, more uptight, more mortified as the session progressed. The more we told him that the event was not something he could control, and that it wasn't something unusual - the more upset he became. At one point, fearing I was making him more ashamed, I attempted to leave the room - but he grasped onto my arm and refused to let me leave. His fear had, evidently, eclipsed his shame. So I stayed."

"You are a good brother, Mycroft," I say quietly. Because it's true. And because he's likely never heard it before.

"Thank you, John," Mycroft says, looking away from me, and clearing his throat. "And it was a distressing session, made worse by the fact that the psychiatrist had an almost aggressive manner with Sherlock, and refused to back down on certain points. By the time the session had ended, he looked...dead inside. There was this horrible look of repulsion cast across his face. His mouth was twisted up and he was trembling. If anything - he seemed even worse than he had before he'd seen the doctor. I felt extremely guilty. I still do."

_I swallow down a lump of sore regret, and suddenly feel an intense need to see my friend. To hold him._

_I highly doubt that would go over well, of course. _

"The next day his affect still seemed...off. In a way more staggeringly alarming than his chronic shame, his embarrassment. His sense of self-loathing was absent, but so was any other previously discernible expression. He acted almost like...a robot. What I found most alarming was that his speech seemed flat and almost schizoid in manner. In the back of my mind, I recall worrying he had had a psychotic break."

"Did you take him to the hospital?"

Mycroft suddenly looks guilty.

"I should have. In retrospect, it's clear that he should have been taken to the hospital, but I foolishly decided to keep him home for yet another day, despite the fact that I knew I could not stay with him. At the time, I thought it was a better alternative than forcing him to go to school when he was so obviously struggling to keep himself together emotionally."

"I can understand that reasoning. You were trying to give him his privacy."

"Privacy that he should not have been allowed. Not_ then._ Not in the state that he was in. But I was inexperienced in recognizing Sherlock's danger periods back then, and so I left him alone for the duration of the day. When I arrived home later that evening, the door to Sherlock's room was closed. When I checked in on him, I could see that he was resting in his bed and thus I left him alone for a few hours more. When it surpassed 7 pm, I checked in on him once more and as I approached him - after turning on the light in his room - I noticed that there was blood all over his sheets and that blood was seeping through his duvet."

"_Oh my god_," I breathe out. I feel...sick. Nauseated.

"For a few terrifying seconds, I thought he was dead - until I realized he was breathing raggedly. I quickly tried to determine how he had been injured and sighted his medication containers by his hand. He was unresponsive, and I called the A&E immediately and explained that I thought my brother had attempted suicide."

We sit silently for a minute, two minutes. I wipe tears away from my face, and pull the bag of biscotti in towards my stomach. I really yearn to get home. To see him.

_To hold him._

_Which I can never do, of course._

_But I want to do that._

_To hold him, and take away some of his pain._

When Mycroft continues on, it is almost in a whisper: "The hospital later informed me that he had swallowed his two bottles of anti-anxiety medication. He had also cut his thighs and genitals with a parcel blade. Luckily, most of the wounds were superficial, but the attending doctor in the critical care unit realized that the form of mutilation Sherlock had inflicted upon himself was suggestive of sexual abuse because of both the location and the aggression of the cuts, and Sherlock was transferred to an adolescent psychiatric ward. I was, as you can imagine, accosted by social workers repeatedly and questioned about any potential incestuous on goings between myself and Sherlock."

"Jesus, Mycroft. I am so sorry."

"It was an extremely difficult time, yes. Made worse by the fact that I had not even pushed for punitive action against my own father, for what he had done to Sherlock. I had taken my brother away from the home where he had been hurt, yes - but neither of us had reported the years of abuse to the authorities. Sherlock forbade it when I tried to get him to even consider the possibility. Of course, being the logical perpetrator of such abuse in the eyes of the hospital staff, Sherlock finally broke his silence and decided to speak out. He was terrified, I am sure, and yet he did it to protect _me_."

Mycroft suddenly gets up, and grabs his coat from the hall closet - which he applies quickly, sans scarf or gloves.

I can tell he has decided that the conversation has come to its end, and is now unceremoniously escorting me back to the car. My head is swimming with unanswered questions, but I follow mutely - completely overwhelmed.

"I am sure that you've heard enough horrible things for tonight, John. And I won't discuss this with you again, because frankly - it is far too difficult for me to face, except in times of utter necessity. But I needed you to know the complexity of the situation. The reasons for my concerns regarding you and Sherlock. Regarding any potential future developments. I need you to know that he may not be capable of returning anyone's affections, especially not sexually. In fact, if he feels conflicted about his relationship with you, it's possible that he may try to evict you from his life entirely. And I know that would probably bring ruin to him. You are - indeed - very good for him."

I flush anew, for reasons unknown.

I have never felt sexually attracted to Sherlock Holmes, and yet Mycroft's gaze is one of intense knowing. As if he's seeing something I cannot yet see.

_Part of me suddenly feels very, very uneasy._

"I don't have any...romantic feelings for your brother, Mycroft. Please believe me."

"Feelings are complicated creatures. Sometimes, those that are afflicted are the last to know..."

"Mycroft - I am _not gay_! I am not attracted to Sherlock in that way. And even if my feelings changed - _and they won't, I assure you_ - but even if they_ did_, I would not proceed in any way that could scare him!"

Mycroft bites his lip lightly, sighing.

"It would take very little to scare him, John. Very little indeed. You must realize that."

"I would never be so brazen about any area that I know causes Sherlock that much pain! I care about him a lot, Mycroft. Your brother is my best friend."

Mycroft is quiet for a few moments, mulling something over in his mind.

"And yet you purchased books on how to advance a romantic relationship with an incest survivor," he says softly, his tone brooking no argument.

I cringe, feeling suddenly exposed, for reasons unknown.

_Why won't he let this go?_

"It was a comprehensive book," and now I am feeling keyed up, "That is all. I thought-" _and what **were** you thinking, Watson?,_ "that if a book designed to help soothe an abuse survivor through a sexual relationship was so positively received by the psychiatric community - that the advice within could be adapted to a platonic relationship. And that it must cover a far wider reach of topics than a book devoted to platonic relationships. I wanted to be_ informed._ I want to help him. That's the end of it!"

Mycroft is looking at me almost _sadly_ now.

"John..."

_Oh for heaven's sake. I don't believe this!_

I get into the automobile quickly, refusing to debate this issue with him any longer; I hear a slight sigh from the exterior of the car, and a few moments later I hear Mycroft mutter directions softly to the driver.

Before the vehicle pulls away from the curb, Mycroft saunters to the rear view window.

"He is lucky to have you for a friend, John. I hope you can help him more than I ever could."

The smile he gives me is a pained attempt at gratitude for the visit, and I suddenly feel a pang of grief for him. For his disconnection from Sherlock. For his sense of ownership in the crimes perpetrated against his brother. For the confusion he likely feels, but has also likely never expressed - about why he was treated so distinctly to his younger brother. Why he escaped the same fate, even though emotionally - I know he likely feels almost as conflicted.

Certainly knowing that fact alone could make anyone feel complicit. And from what he's told me tonight, I now can comprehend why he's always seems so abnormally concerned about Sherlock.

As the car pulls away from the house Mycroft slowly shrinks into the evening blackness until he becomes nothing more than a two dimensional speck against the brick and ivy.

For a brief, flashing moment he seems like nothing more than a paper cut out doll, walking around a surreal English garden.

I wonder if that's what derealisation feels like. Except, without end. A sense of deep, profound disconnection from human love and connection. Surrounded in only blackness, and night. The endless state of being alone with your fears, your shames. No warmth, no connection to offer any hope. Nor make the burden lighter to carry.


	4. Biscotti, Tortellini and Showers

**Title - Shadow Child - Part 3**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **I take a step back, my heart fluttering in my chest. The look of rage I had seen a moment before is rapidly draining from my friend's face. "Did I - did I hurt you?," Sherlock clarifies, his eyes closed. Unwilling to look. / Hints of Johnlock. Angst. Warnings for child abuse/ non-con.

**Author's Note:** POV change in this chapter from John to Sherlock. I also don't know how much I 'like' this chapter. While I often dislike my own writing, I find it hard to get the mood-shifting nature of our favourite mercurial detective just _so_. I want it to feel authentic, without being excessively bleak. Reviews ALWAYS welcome! Even if it's just a sentence (and I need to do some responses). I appreciate all the kind and supportive words, guys!

* * *

**_Sherlock's POV_**

* * *

My throat is dry, and sore, and I wake up to the sense of constrictive pressure against my arms. A jostling, rushing presence.

The flat comes into my perception with a muted sort of darkness and I cough several times, my lungs feeling rough and heavy.

_Almost as if I am coming down with pneumonia. _

_Or something equally irksome._

"What is it?," I ask gruffly, feeling somewhat unnerved by the intensity of John's expression. He quickly releases both of my arms and I pull them up to my chest, unnerved by the pressure around my wrists. He was almost grasping my flesh hard enough to induce _bruising._

He obviously felt an urgent need to get me to wake.

_Why?_

I study him briefly and note that he looks spooked, but is calming down in rapid progressions as I sit upright.

I focus my attention on discerning and evaluating his behaviour. Something is off.

_Something has happened._

I could understand the pinched look of sickness on his face last night, and this morning, of course. But the flash of fear I am seeing now has not been caused by my previous words. It's a different form of nervousness. More intense, if anything.

And it seems to have been caused by the fact that I was sleeping.

Apparently quite soundly.

I stare at my wrist watch, determining the time, before stretching out my back and arms - leaning away from the chesterfield. Cricking my neck, I hear it pop. I must have fallen asleep in an awkward position; my neck feels stiff.

"Was there a_ fire_?," I ask calmly, after a few moments of deciding how to proceed with John. "You look...unnerved."

Certainly I am not going to have another panic attack. Hopefully never again (_I've never been more mortified in front of him since I've known him_), but certainly not now. Honestly, the additional rest seems to have reoriented me. Grounded me. I don't feel so lost in who I am and what I need. I know what I need. I need to push all this emotional refuse from my past away. Anytime I dwell on the memories for even a few moments, I start to feel weak and...pained. It's nonsensical, but that's how it is.

_And I am not "working through" (Mycroft's words, not mine) emotions like that if they take me so off-course._

In fact, as it stands I am now mentally re-bolstering my mind palace, and keeping certain emotions contained within in a lock-down mode. Because I have been lax. Terribly sloppy.

This body is mine, and as such - so are the accompanying emotions. They are generated by the body at some level; they do not exist independently of the brain and its chemicals - and so they are something I should be able to control. There is simply no need for weepiness, for such a maudlin display of vulnerability.

_My breathing, my tears, my words..._

_are all under my determination._

Or they should have been, and would have been, if I had been more soundly rested. On that point, John is correct.

When he still hasn't responded, I feel a slight irritation bloom in my solar plexus. Because I will not operate around him if he is determined to treat me as if I am made of spun glass. I am not breakable, I am not weak, and I am not a child in need of molly coddling. I will leave the flat for extended periods of time and go for walks if that's what is needed to bypass this awkwardness.

I cannot stand to see that _look_ in his eyes: as if I am some pathetic, mewling kitten who has been beaten and left bleeding on the side of the street. An animal that needs to be coaxed back to safety, and spoken to with gentle words and gentle touches for fear that it may bite or claw or otherwise attack anyone who comes near.

"Perhaps there was a viral epidemic whereby people were bleeding from their eyes? And you were trying to determine if I had succumbed to the big, black sleep? Is that it?," I try again, crossing my arms over my chest. I know I look petulant. I can't help it. The move is almost instinctive, and as loathsome as it is for me to admit it - strangely comforting. I can feel the physical dimensions of my chest, my arms, the top of my torso - and I can sense that I am disconnected and therefore separate from everything else in existence. While that very thought sometimes brought me great anxiety in childhood, now - in adulthood - it gives me a strange measure of peace.

John, strangely enough, winces. And in the back of my mind, I feel a disorienting, sickening _no_. _No, he wouldn't have told him. No, he wouldn't have done that to me._

But John is as readable as a primary school book.

"Why did you feel the need to wake me up with such insistence?," I finally manage to get out. I don't want to look at him right now. A good portion of me doesn't want to _see. _I just want him to give me some pat, overprotective response - and be done with it.

"Sherlock," he whispers - and I know he means to say more, and merely doesn't know how to proceed. Or rather, he doesn't know how to proceed in such a way as to not give information away. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the more alarming issue. That fact that he feels he needs to hide the reason for his concern.

Because he's not doing it to protect my so-called emotional sensitivities. He and I both know that I do not have anything close to _emotional sensitivities_.

_No._

He's doing it to protect _someone_. And given the truly limited number of people who know about my past history, diminished further by the fact that John wouldn't willingly go to any of them and discuss matters on his own...

I can only conclude...

_Damn you, Mycroft._

_I will kill you, you poncy, infuriating blowhard._

"Do you have something you need to tell me?," I ask suddenly, my voice taking on a syrupy tone. The mockery loud and clear.

And that's when I realize that I am truly angry.

A part of me almost feels an emotion close to _hurt_. Something like a feeling of breathlessness and betrayal and anger and shame, all swirled together to make one detrimental emotional state of potential instability if I don't pull myself together right now.

_Keep it together, Holmes._

_Haven't you exposed your underbelly enough in the last few days?_

I can feel a formidable heat bite at my eyes, making them start to water, so I do the best to hold onto my anger. Finally, the sense that I need to cry abates. Anger, I know, always allows me to preserve some measure of cutting formidability.

_Pain always destroys me._

"Let it go," I finally get out, looking at my lap. "Whatever he has told you. I don't need to know. He is stubborn beyond all measure, and I don't want to hear his exaggerations about how I was never able to cope, how damaged I was - how _worried_ he is about me."

When I finally gather the strength to look at my flatmate, I realize he looks bizarrely thrown by my admission. Almost frightened. He's shifting about on the balls of his feet as if he's ready to run.

"I'm not angry with you, John. God knows how meddlesome Mycroft can be. And he should have predicted that I would have discovered his activities in a heartbeat. Your face gives everything away."

I suddenly feeling dismal and tired. "We don't have to speak about it, okay?"

It's the only out I'm going to give anyone tonight, and if he doesn't take it - _if all of this becomes a horribly big deal_ - I'm going to lash into Mycroft with such animosity that he'll think twice about encroaching into my territory again.

John seems to be hesitating with something, and his face shows the tug-of-war that is the state of his mind.

"No Ebola outbreak, Sherlock, sorry to say. I'd know you'd probably find that pretty exciting," he says uneasily, his eyes still owlish and somewhat guilt-ridden.

What's more - I can hear the tone. The false levity. I try to ascertain whether or not I could have said or done anything in my sleep to have disturbed him, and I pull my sash more tightly across my body.

I don't believe I have a history of sleep talking. At least, I haven't spoken in my sleep for almost 15 years now.

_(One of the benefits of an indulgent cocaine habit was a blissed out ability to fall asleep anywhere and at any time, and not have fear lurking about in my brain making me react like a scared child all night.)_

Almost on impulse, I find myself tugging at my shirt cuffs - trying to lower them over my forearms. It's an old response - one I still haven't managed to wean myself out of, and borne of the necessity to hide track marks. Even though I no longer engage with the needle, I still find that the mannerism occasionally shows up when I'm feeling overwhelmed. Some sort of bizarre tic holdover from my early 20's, but if I am lucky - John won't understand its meaning.

_Although John is watching you, genius._

_And even if he doesn't understand what it means..._

_He knows it showcases anxiety._

I force myself to halt the motion, the itch in my arms increasing. Anxiety makes the itch stronger, even all these years later.

"You okay?," he asks softly. And it's something that I've come to realize is just so naturally John Watson. His softness, his sensitivity. As a counter measure to my brashness and at times unknowing emotional insensitivity.

I'd admit to occasionally having difficulty imagining him in the military. I can see the impact of his time in service in his hair cut, and how he walks, and holds himself, and even how he parses his sentences. But he doesn't seem like he would have been a natural fit for the army. He has too much natural empathy. Too much irrepressible softness.

It's hard to imagine him being in any position whereby he'd be expected to shoot - and kill - some random stranger on any given day.

Which probably explains why he flittered on over to the medical corps as soon as he was able. And also why he suffered with PTSD symptoms for the better part of a year. Because it is not in his nature to cause or indulge violence. He's a good marksman, yes - but that trait is more about technical precision. It is not a trait necessarily twined to a need to hurt or destroy or cause pain.

_But he could hurt you. Couldn't he? _

_If he wanted to?_

_He's strong._

_And quiet._

Suddenly, I feel some niggling and incredibly new fear that there is, perhaps deep down, a dark and violent side to my best friend. One that even I haven't discovered. One that I have never seen.

I can't indulge in the thoughts with him in my presence, however. And John, unfortunately, is still studying me. I feel a little dreadful considering the prospect that maybe this is just how things are going to be between us now. I have a hard enough time being seen in physical pain or weakness. Even emotions relating to pleasure, or joy, make me feel strange. Uneasy. As if my enjoyment of anything sensorial - be it eating a meal, or smelling a scent, or delighting in the feel of new soft clothing against my skin - is skirting a reality tinged with something perverse. As if it is wrong to feel good emotionally, and certainly physically.

And I know that doesn't make a lot of sense, but it's how I feel.

Intellectually, I know it makes it hard for others to live with me. Even more so - to relate to me. I know that truth, in a clinical and removed way.

But the admittance that I don't want others to see my fear, or pleasure, or almost any emotional state? It makes me wish on many occasions that I were a robot. That I didn't have to feel. That I didn't have to realize what existed all around me. What delighted others, but which causes my insides to coil up in a teeming need to _get away_.

_And from what? _

_What are you trying to get away from?_

It is so much easier for me to piss off and aggravate others. Force their hand, and make them hate me. Make them stay away. And usually it works, too - the John Watson's and Molly Hooper's of the world aside.

So maybe it is the fact that I am still woozy, still drowsy - that I blurt out:

"I don't like people looking at me, John."

John's frown lines deepen.

"_What?_ What are you talking about?"

I sit up, push back against the surface of the chesterfield. Attempt to get another half foot of physical distance between the two of us before I continue on.

"I cannot stop my idiot brother from discussing matters with you if he is so inclined, but is it too much for me to request that you do not look at me as you are currently doing?"

John backs up on his own now. An essential six or seven more inches in an opposing direction. I let out a pent up breath.

"I wasn't aware that I was looking at you in a bad way, Sherlock."

I bristle. Even John can't be that stupid.

_He must know what I mean._

"You are studying me. And it's not in your nature to study people. Therefore, I don't like it. I don't like what it means."

"I...apologize. Lord knows I don't want to make this harder for you. I'm just concerned."

_Another word I hate. _

_Maybe more than all the others combined._

_Concerned._

_Awful word, that._

_Makes me cringe every time I hear it._

I nod, once, quickly but strongly.

"And what will it take for you to no longer be concerned?," and my voice is like grit. Sandy.

John actually sighs. I hear him, and I see him lower himself down to his haunches. Probably so he can meet me eye to eye. A display of camaraderie, perhaps?

"I am your friend, Sherlock. So I'm going to be honest with you, yeah?"

I don't say anything, don't even move - but he gets the message. _Proceed._

"It might take me awhile before I no longer am concerned about you. There's also a chance that I might _always_ be concerned about you. It's how I operate when I care about someone. I don't want them to be in pain, if it can be helped. And I don't think ignoring all this stuff is going to make it hurt any less."

I suddenly feel infused with heat, and realize I feel dirty. I must have sweat all over my clothes in the heat of the day. Even my hair seems to be somewhat weighed down against my skull.

"I don't like that response," I say finally. Not knowing what else to say, and not caring if I sound like a 5 year old. I've been accused of being profoundly childish in the past, so I hardly care how I sound now. Especially if that is the prevailing consensus of my behaviour.

John's brows draw together.

"But it's the truth, Sherlock. And I thought you'd prefer the truth more than anything else right now."

_Truth._

_That infuriating Mycroft. What the hell has he told you?_

"Then while we are on the subject of truth, John - what did my brother tell you tonight?"

John suddenly stands up. He looks tense.

"Oh relax! I know you didn't go to him of your own impetus looking for answers. I've already told you - I'm not angry with _you_."

He seems to be debating with an issue. I can see the tension play out over his facial features.

"You shouldn't be angry with Mycroft, either, Sherlock. He was just trying to help."

"_Trying to help_," I scoff. "He's just trying to appease his own guilty conscience. If he spoke to you - believe me - it was more for his benefit, not mine."

"Look, Sherlock. He didn't even want you to know that he had spoken with me! He expressed - very strongly - his recommendation that I never even bring it up. He merely wanted to clarified a few issues. And he didn't really tell me much more about what occurred than you did."

But I can see his tell. I know his tell. He's rubbing his right ear lobe with his hand.

_Liar._

"Why are you lying to me?," I hiss, "You told me you were going to be honest! But you're lying. I can read the falsity all over your face! What did he tell you?!"

"Sherlock! The two of you have me between a rock and a hard place! Mycroft insisted in speaking with me. You know what he's like! You know how persistent he is!"

"Oh, I am so sorry you are in such a difficult position. However shall you cope?"

A flash of anger then.

"You git! Don't take your anger out on me! I was trying to help you last night, and I was trying to help you this morning. Don't you see, Sherlock? You can barely contain it! You never lose it on cases. But you did on this one! And if you can do it once, you can do it again! It means there are very real-"

I get up, try to move past him. I don't need to hear this.

"No! Listen to me! The reason Mycroft knew of my concerns was _because_ I was trying to help you."

Fresh understanding now, and an elevated heart race.

"What did you do?"

_How would Mycroft learn of it?_

_Unless John was...taking matters into his own hand, perhaps?_

_Has he contacted someone on my behalf?_

_It'd be just like him to try to get me to _talk_ to someone._

_Even though he hated going to a therapist, himself._

John rolls his eyes.

"You make it sound like I betrayed your confidence. All I did was go to get some books. To learn more about what you are going through. To help you with sorting this all out."

_Books._

_To read more about it._

_To know more about what would have happened in my disgusting past._

_To hear professionals talk about it._

"I don't need any help, John! Not from you! Not from some bloody so-called professional! _Nothing is the matter with me_!," and the snarl comes out all on its own.

"Nothing is the matter, hey?," and John's voice - his timber and volume - has returned to being so rational, so aggravatingly calm - that I want to scream. "So you didn't describe what sounds like trauma induced dissociation to me this morning, did you? I must have imagined that part. I must have been confused, because it sounded to me like you were describing a very traumatic early childhood. An inability to stay with reality, because the reality presented to you was so horrific!"

I stand up suddenly, my fingers curling into fists under my dressing robe.

"I can't believe you are using that against me! That was a lifetime ago! And I told you that in confidence! Not so you could hold that information over my head like this is some sort of twisted poker game. And now you and _Mycroft_-"

"It was a confidence I kept! I didn't tell Mycroft _any_ of it! Nothing of what you said, and nothing of what occurred, or my responses!"

I look down at my hands when I feel something warm and wet pearl up against my palms.

_I've cut my skin._

_Accidentally, of course._

_But it's cut all the same._

Half moon bleeding in a vibrant rose are starting to crest along the center of my hands.

"Damnit, Sherlock!," John breaths, suddenly sounding old and heart broken, "This is what I am talking about! Either you deliberately hurt yourself, or you didn't feel the pain associated-," and his voice drops off.

My hands are still shaking as John departs to the bathroom, only to pad back a few seconds later with a damp wash cloth.

"Is that what Mycroft said?," I ask at last. Even though I dread the response. "That I'll_ hurt_ myself? That I _have_?"

John closes his eyes.

"I don't need Mycroft to tell me that you have a history-"

"A history of _what_?"

"Self-harm. If only related to your drug use, for starters. Using hard drugs? You knew exactly where that could lead, but you took part in it anyway. Not only that - but the misappropriation of substances in general, even legal substances, to modify your bodily limitations. Your tendency to ignore physical signs representative of hunger, fatigue, cold, pain. Problems we've discussed before! Long before I even knew about this...issue. In short - you completely ignore what your body needs. And that's just your body. You are so much more than a body, Sherlock! You are so much more than a machine, even though I know you wish it were that simple! So tell me - is that not reason enough to be concerned?"

I can feel the adrenaline coursing through my body. And I want to say something to John, something to get him _to see_ - but I can no idea what to say. I have no idea if I even think he's right, or wrong. I just feel off-kilter.

_Focus. Focus._

_You've already had a panic attack in front of John Watson._

_Army doctor John Watson, who probably saw his own friends bleed out in the field._

_And here you are, acting like a pathetic, disgusting-_

"But what else? He _told_ you something. Because you looked scared when I didn't wake up right away."

John licks his lips.

"Is there something Mycroft could have told me, about you not waking easily - that would cause me to be concerned?"

I suddenly feel furious.

_At Mycroft._

_At John._

_At every living being who doesn't feel like this._

_Doesn't feel this tangle of black and red and everything pulsing and hurting_

_and rage._

"Stop playing games with me! This isn't funny!"

John's eyes suddenly harden and deepen.

"The last thing in the world I think about child abuse is that it is _funny_."

_He probably finds it heartbreaking._

_Cue the violins._

I try not to snort.

"Don't give me the run around! Admit it! You just think I'm weak and damaged! In need of being watched 24-7 lest I try to cut my body open again with an exacto blade! Or did Mycroft not get that far in his disclosure?"

My torso and arms are suddenly trembling.

I didn't know anger could make me feel this way.

_That furor alone could make me feel so upset._

_Or if I am even upset._

_Or if I am sad._

_I don't know. I don't know anything._

"Jesus Christ," and John's voice comes out in such a way that I doubt he meant to speak at all. In fact, if pallor was determined by octaves, by notes - he would be several notes paler right now. "Can I please sit down?," he questions, but it's obviously rhetorical because he's already moving to sit down besides me.

I pull back and try to get my heart to stop thundering away in my chest.

When he opens his eyes again, I can see that they are full of tears.

Oddly enough, that makes my resolve harden more so. It makes the sad feeling in my gut lessen. It makes it easier to feel anger and not pain. Because if he is in pain-

_And maybe he deserves it. After speaking to Mycroft._

_Knowing how that would upset me._

_He could have walked away._

_But he must have gotten into that car..._

_He certainly didn't put up much of a fight now - did he?_

"Why did you do that? Hurt yourself like that?," and he speaks so softly that I can barely hear him. "What in the world would have possessed you to do that, Sherlock?"

I pull my hands to my lap, and study the crusting blood. Focus on it. Focus on the geometry of it. If I could straighten out the lines, and intersect another few lines of red, I would have an equilateral triangle...

"_Sherlock_?"

And suddenly one of my hands is in one of his, and my throat feels tighter, even though I didn't think it could feel anymore constricted.

I pull my arm back quickly, shift away from him in my seat.

"I'm sorry. I should have asked first before I did that," he mutters.

"Doesn't matter," I get out.

_Whose lying, now?_

"Why did you tell me that, Sherlock?," and the look in his eyes highlights just how much he wants to understand.

That he's not just saying what he's saying to be polite. _He really wants to know._

"I told you because I was _angry_," I bite out. "And because I know Mycroft likely already told you. And because I wanted to shock you. Make you stop talking about everything. I can see now that my attempt has failed."

John nods to himself, evidently seeing or appreciating a certain emotional logic in my words that I cannot discern myself.

"Can you tell me why you did it then? What was going through your head to make you think-," and he evidently cannot keep speaking.

"It was 22 years ago, John! I don't know what I was thinking when I did it! I guess I was upset," I huff.

His eyes are scanning my own. Moving back and forth rapidly.

"You _'guess you were upset'_? So you took a knife and cut your legs and-"

"Yes," my tone is brisk. "Yes, whatever Mycroft said - _yes_. I don't see why it is important now. I didn't do any lasting harm to myself, according to the doctors. Not that it would change my life at present much one way or the other if I had."

"Sherlock," John gets out in a tense voice. "This - this isn't something to_ joke about_."

"The fact that I was a reactive idiot of a child? That sounds like a hilarious joke, to me. How someone apparently so smart could do something so dumb. And then to be caught, to be bandaged up, to be kept in 72 hour hold. I think that's freaking _hysterical_."

"That's not what I was implying" he responds, preternaturally patient. "It just shocked me, is all. And despite what Mycroft said, I didn't know if you needed to talk about it. Something tells me you never really have."

My heart starts to slow. In a strange way, I don't even feel ashamed of what I've just admitted. Possibly because John doesn't seem ashamed for me. He just seems resignedly sad. And while that shouldn't make me feel better, it doesn't make me feel quite so-

"I had to know if he told you, so I had to get your _reaction_. I thought you'd think I was a freak, if you knew," and when I speak, my voice comes out in staggered breaths. Monotone voice. Controlled. "Because it is a freakish thing to do."

John's index finger flitters over to my left hand. I feel a slight wispy touch - back and forth; a physical attempt at assurance. It makes my stomach tighten.

"I've never thought you were a freak, Sherlock. And I never will, alright?"

And just like that, the light stroking stops. In fact, if was so brief, so light, so almost not anything at all - that I start to wonder if the motion was more instinctive, and not really thought out at all.

"What now?," I question, trying to hold in the shuddery need for fresh air. I can calm down in my own room, in the bathroom. I can get it together in privacy.

John rights himself, then offers me a hand and brings me to my feet.

"Perhaps the best thing is to just proceed...as normally as possible? And, since you are obviously exhausted - an early bed? No 3 am violin sessions, perhaps?"

"Early bed?," I scoff. "It's after 8 pm and I've slept the entire day."

"You did," John says slowly. "So you can see my concern."

"No doubt exacerbated by Mycroft's exaggerations," I mutter.

"_Sherlock_...," the tone is brisk. Brooking no argument. "It doesn't sound like Mycroft exaggerated anything, does it?"

_ So much for so-called rest..._

As we walk to the kitchen, John suddenly turns to me. Studious and intent. More so than our previous interaction.

"Did you take something?," he parses his words carefully, not meeting my eyes now. "Some sort of medication, perhaps?"

"_And just when we agreed to try to get things back to normal_..."

"Sherlock - you slept for a very long time. Had you taken a drug of some sort? Are you taking anything to, you know, help you with your sleep?"

John's lips suddenly look pinched.

"You're actually - _what?_ - scared?," I muse.

He doesn't respond.

"_What is it?," _I repeat, more caustically than before.

_Mortifying, really._

"Scared because I was sleeping? No - that's not it. You are scared precisely because you are worried that I had taken - what? Taken a _sleeping medication_?"

He flinches at that.

"No. This is Mycroft's doing. Oh, I see it now. He told you...he told you I had been _suicidal_. Melodramatic donkey's ass!"

"Sherlock!"

"No. Alright? I am not taking sleeping pills. I give you my word."

He looks away to the fridge, biting his tongue when he sees a plastic Ziploc bag with cut brain segments of a goat.

"That's it. I am getting you a bar fridge. You can keep body parts in there."

I settle down on a stool, and watch him as he bustles about. I still am upset with Mycroft. But John isn't treating me like a basket case, so the anger I had felt earlier is diminishing.

"I'm going to make us some tortellini," my flat mate finally states, sighing. "You like tortellini, don't you? You told me to order it once. At Angelo's"

I slam the cabinet shut just as he attempts to open it.

"What?," he asks petulantly. "Sherlock - I'm trying to make us dinner here. If you don't want to talk about anything else, then I'm not going to force you. But you need to eat. You have lost weight on the Thiesen case, and you can't afford to really do that."

"What's this, then?," and I indicate to his clothes, lightly touching the sleeve of his arm. "You have changed your jumper."

"Hmm?," he asks absently, once more looking for the box of dried green and orange tortellini from the Italian market. "Do you like pesto sauce?"

_John was wearing an oatmeal jumper earlier. My favourite jumper. With blue jeans._

_Before he left the house._

_Now he is wearing a cranberry red jumper, with brown cords._

_It is not a hot day..._

_so it is unlikely he would have sweated in his clothing _

_certainly not to a degree whereby he felt he had to change._

_He did not work today._

_I __also know he had a large bowl of steel cut oats around brunch, shortly before he left the flat._

_So he probably did not drop food on his garments._

_But he may have spilled a beverage on his clothing._

"Did you spill something on your clothes?"

John's brows crease, and he seems to be internally debating something.

"I spilt coffee on them, yes."

"Pants, too," I muse. "Did someone bump into you? You're not usually that careless."

John rolls his eyes.

"Yes, Mr. Observant. I was at a café this afternoon. A man spilled his beverage on me as he was leaving."

I grumble under my breath. That jumper really is my favourite.

"I brought you back a biscotti as well," John continues. "You're welcome, by the way."

I hop up from my chair, and root around in the cupboard, looking for the treat.

"It's for _after dinner_, Sherlock," John says calmly, with the edge of something stern. Almost as if he is my fa-

_Almost as if he is my superior._

"I actually like biscotti," I admit, taking a bite. "Never big on tortellini."

"You chose this, Sherlock! You actually put four of these bags of gourmet tortellini into our cart. Therefore, if you don't like tortellini - tough. We are using this food up."

I smile into the air, finding John's tone amusing, then pull my feet up and under my body. Sitting cross legged, I watch him as he prepares the meal.

The fact that he is pretending to be irritated with me (_when I know he really isn't_) is enough to calm me down and make everything feel more or less normal again. And resolved. I suddenly feel much better.

"Can you clean a space on the table, please?," John asks quickly, pulling me from my musings.

I nod and go to find the necessary supplies after depositing my experiments in new regions around the kitchen. I then take a bottle of eco-cleanser that John must have purchased from under the sink and spray the table top with a light mist, wiping everything down with a tea towel.

"Not what _that's_ used for," John says under his breath, and then, more loudly: "thank you, Sherlock. That's great."

I smirk anew, pleased that he's bypassed the chastising stage entirely.

"What sauce would you like?," he asks easily. "A marinara? Or a crème sauce?"

"We have sauce?," I question. Because - I highly doubt that we _do_. In fact, I am almost certain that we _don't_.

"Well, we have all the ingredients to _make_ a sauce. We have tomatoes, peppers, onions, butter, cheese... the appropriate herbs."

"That sounds excessively time consuming for a _sauce_. Can't we just grate cheese over everything and be done with it?," I say easily, biting once more into the chocolate biscotti with relish.

John watches my actions and sighs.

"I told you. That was for after," he reiterates, while I smile at him with closed-mouth appreciation. "Well, at least you are _eating_."

I stop mid-chew, and put the bag down on the table. I don't like the insinuation.

"I'm not on a case. So the rules don't apply. I don't have some sort of _problem with eating, _despite whatever lies Mycroft may have tried to tell you."

John looks stunned for a second, before replying: "Sherlock, I didn't-"

"Getting a shower," I mutter, departing the room as hurriedly as possible.

* * *

I take the stairs two at a time until I get to my bedroom and then quickly locate clean clothes. I decide upon black jeans and a Kelly green button down shirt before I make my way to the bathroom.

The light flickers on until the room is encapsulated in a golden glow. I lock the door - checking twice - before pulling off my sleeping garments and tossing them into a pile by the hamper.

I then grab a new blue Gillette razor from under the sink, along with my shaving foam, toothbrush and paste, and a 2-in-1 bottle of shampoo that smells decidedly like candied pears. I take the assortment of items over to the tub basin, before throwing back the curtain and fiddling with the taps.

From the inside of the space the rest of the bathroom looks green, and eerie, and I quickly seek out hot water before pulling the tap upwards to flood the shower interior with water.

I work quickly, starting with my teeth because I have only slept through the _entire god damn day_ and they feel grimy and disgusting. I get a good lather of licorice foam going before I spit everything down the drain. I then re-brush my teeth until the interior of my mouth feels suitably clean.

Next I squirt out a quid-sized worth of orange scented body cleanser and rub it over my frame, in sections. When a section is completely scrubbed and cleansed, I rinse off the residue and mentally delete that part of my anatomy from my body's daily _to-clean_ list. Clean areas are in green, dirty areas in red. At least in my mind. A sort of easy to understand _Go and Stop_ system.

I let my fingers cascade over my chest and along my torso as I rub at the flesh with the cloth. Eventually the skin changes colour from pale white to reddish, and that change, ironically enough, indicates that the area is sufficiently cleansed.

I do my arms next, and then my face. Finally I grab the bottle once more to get slightly more gel, and apply the cleanser to my thighs, and between my legs - looking at the shower curtain as I do so. I feel around until my fingertips connect with the slightly raised ridge of keloid scars and then I move lower to complete the routine on my calves and feet.

My hair is always last, because it is the least problematic area and takes the least amount of time to complete.

I turn off the shower for a few moments, shivering in the relative coolness of the space, then cup my hands to receive a fair bit of Barbasol foam. Most men do this chore in front of the sink, so that they can see the outline of their face and avoid nicking themselves. Luckily, my proprioceptive abilities are highly attuned, so I rarely cut myself. The shower also adds an added bonus: the ability to completely rinse off and wash away all foam and residue.

I apply a thin layer of shaving foam to my neck and jawline, then deftly feel about with my fingertips once more before swiping the razor blade over my facial skin until the slight gritty edge of new hair growth is cut away and the skin feels hairless once more. As luck would have it, my body hair is relatively sparse and fine and doesn't seem to grow in very quickly at all. In fact, I could probably get away without a daily shave and have no one be the wiser. The bigger issue, for me, is one of tactile defensiveness. I dislike the sandpapery quality of my skin when the hair grows in. It distracts me to such a degree that I am typically highly attentive to my personal hygiene.

I shave twice tonight to ensure that I have gotten all slight protrusions - before restarting the shower jet and rinsing the shampoo and shaving foam off and away from my body.

* * *

My hair is air drying and already starting to curl when I return to the kitchen; John is serving the tortellini into two chartreuse bowls.

"Feeling better?," he asks pleasantly, with only a hint of sadness from the earlier evening still splayed across his face, and I nod curtly.

I always feel better after a shower.

It's just the way I am.


	5. Admissions

**Title - Shadow Child - Part 3**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **I take a step back, my heart fluttering in my chest. The look of rage I had seen a moment before is rapidly draining from my friend's face. "Did I - did I hurt you?," Sherlock clarifies, his eyes closed. Unwilling to look. / Hints of Johnlock. Angst. Warnings for child abuse/ non-con.

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the delays, guys! Life is hectic right now, so I cannot promise regular updates.

First off: Evelina is a real children's hospital in London. I'll try to include actual places and real streets whenever possible.

Secondly - and much more importantly - this chapter deals with semi-graphic discussions of sexual abuse. Nothing gratuitous, but it's there. That'll likely be a standing warning for the entire story.

* * *

**_Sherlock's POV_**

* * *

After dinner, John whipped out the Cluedo board, then put on the kettle and returned with two mugs of Ovaltine. I know it was his attempt at being soothing. But it made my heart skitter in my chest like a scared, wild animal.

The knowledge that he thinks he has to_ comfort me_ is almost worse than the knowledge that I know he _knows_. About almost everything, really.

And just like that - the feelings have come back. That weird heart clenching upset _of not wanting people to look, and see._ Not wanting people to analyze and pity. Because that's what they'll do. There is no question about it.

And now I can see that all too soft look of gentleness in John's eyes, it upsets me. It's almost a Pavlovian response at this point. Even though I know John is - by his very nature - kind, and gentle whenever he can afford to be.

_Truthfully, I don't know why I feel so frenzied with everything. _

_I cannot begin to address why I don't want him knowing._

John, it seems, wants to talk.

At least one of us knows what we want.

"You look pretty weighed down there. Care to share what's going through your mind?," he asks with a feigned casualness, taking a sip of his beverage.

His voice is softer than normal, and I hate that, too.

I stare at my mug of rapidly cooling Ovaltine.

There is a lump in my throat that won't go away.

"Why did you make me this?"

_'This'_ comes out as almost shrill in tone, and I hate that too.

"You don't like Ovaltine?"

John's eyes are studying me. He knows what I am asking, and he knows I am aware of his motivations for the beverage. What this drink_ means_ to me.

It was the beverage Mycroft sometimes brought me. After my stepfather was... done with me.

Back then, it meant that my older brother had come to push out all the bad of the evening, and keep me company until daybreak so that I could rest. Rest knowing that, at least for a little while, I was safe again. I'd hold onto Mycroft as if he was a big, breathing doll. I thought he would protect me, but he never could, and part of me understands that, too. Always did understand that it wasn't Mycroft's fault. Never his fault. Even so, Mycroft never had to go through it. Never had it happen to him _directly_. He witnessed, he observed, but he didn't endure it - and as unfair as it may be - part of me has always hated him for his retained innocence. For getting to grow up and not know the awful feelings that came with it all.

"You know what Ovaltine means," I mutter a couple seconds later. I cannot look at him while speaking. Not tonight.

I hear John swallow - he's close to me physically - and the swallow sounds incredibly loud in the quiet of the flat.

"I thought Ovaltine meant comfort. I just...I don't want you to-"

He breaks off speaking.

"What?," I rasp.

John is shaking his head.

"I don't know, Sherlock. You say you don't know what you're feeling? Well, I don't know what I am feeling either. It's all a mess."

I snort at that, and he looks affronted.

"I'll apologize if that's not the answer you want," he adds a moment later, his frown deepening.

I take a sip of the drink, then put the cup down quickly. The scent is making me nauseated.

The taste is making me want to _scream._

"I can't drink this. I'm sorry," I bite out, rising quickly, and making my way to the kitchen. I dump the contents into the sink and watch the gritty remains of the sugar-barley blend coat the drain. I then open the pantry door and root around until I locate gunpowder green tea.

It has a unique bite and an aroma I associate with my adulthood. It's completely safe.

When I return to the living room a few minutes later, John's own drink has been hurriedly finished off, and the letter tiles for Banagrams have been tossed out on the floor.

I sit cross legged on the carpeting, and pull 21 pieces towards my body.

I will play games with him if it puts his mind at ease, but I am not talking to him about this in any depth. He has Mycroft to ring up for answers about my mental health, should it come to that.

* * *

It is 4:33 AM when I consider a sleepless night a foregone conclusion. I grab my violin, bow and slippers, and pad down the hallway, locking the main door as I do so and stepping out onto the pavement.

The air at this time in the morning is almost assaulting in its briskness.

I walk eight streets north and then proceed four blocks to my right, wandering on over to a small park. At this hour no one is around, and the street lamps shine eerily down onto the cobblestone that winds throughout the area. I walk over to a park bench and sit down, adjusting the violin, and getting comfortable before beginning to play. I choose a piece by Sarasate, and let my body play the music with almost manic rapidity. I put all my anger and rage into my playing, and the music suffers for it, I am sure; by the end of the 9 minutes, however, I am actually feeling emotionally lanced.

Almost as if someone took a scalpel and opened a putrescent wound. Lighter, inside, maybe. Less constricted in my throat and chest and lungs. My chest feels open again, and I pull the violin closer to my cheek, closing my eyes and letting my hands proceed to work out basic scales. It's a meditative pattern, and I am soothed by the rhythmic motion.

I continue on until I can feel the tension drain from my body, and when I open my eyes again - it is early dawn, and I can see a few people milling about in the distance - including a young female runner of about 22 or 23 years of age stretching by the gate entry. She looks up at me, gives me a welcoming little wave to be polite, then resumes her stretching.

I get up from the bench and tie my scarf more securely around my neck before I pad back to Baker street.

When I get to the door, I stare at the metal numbers with a type of dread - wondering if the flat will still smell faintly of honey and barley and cocoa, or if the scent of old memories and old pain has begun to dissipate with the day.

* * *

John is waiting for me. Sitting on the bottom stairs, by the entry way.

I still my motions as I make my way inside, and hold my violin tighter across my chest in a type of weird, protective impulse.

"Where have you been?," John starts, his voice falsely calm. It's a put upon calm - a unique breed of patient and assuring that he's recently tapped into these last few days. It's not authentic, as such, but it's not rooted in falsity for falsities sake. He simply doesn't want me to tune him out.

_I wonder if he's used that tone with his exceptionally anxious patients. With kids._

_I don't doubt it._

I can tell based on the tension in his hands, his neck and his face - that he's actually been _worried_ about me.

I hold up the violin by way of explanation.

"I was at the park. I didn't want to wake you up with the noise."

John closes his eyes for a moment.

"Did you get any sleep at all?"

I hesitate, consider lying, then opt for truth.

"I couldn't sleep. Too keyed up."

For a moment, I consider reassuring my flatmate that I probably didn't need to sleep. I had slept the previous day. I am definitely not sleep deprived at present moment.

_It should count for something, right?_

"Do you feel better?," he asks a few moments later.

The question throws me. I hang up my jacket, affix the blue scarf to the peg by the coat rack.

"Sherlock?"

"I don't know," I frown at the wall, still turned away from him.

"You don't know?," John repeats dumbly.

"I told you I didn't want you to know. I told you that I don't know what I am feeling," I admit at last. "Everything feels-"

My voice warbles off and I move past John on the stairs. He moves out of the way easily, and seems to shift gears.

"Try to get some shut eye for a few hours. You'll want to be well rested today."

I turn around abruptly at that, knowing something has occurred with that simple proclaimation.

John sighs, rubs his hand through his hair.

"Lestrade called. Woke me up, actually. It seems that Toby has regained consciousness."

"What?"

"He opened his eyes this morning. About 3 am. His mother called Lestrade a couple hours later. She wants to talk to you. I think she wants you to talk to her son too, actually."

That is an interesting development, considering I punched her husband without an obvious (at least in her mind) explanation. Which merely allows me to conclude that she has aligned herself with me because of my actual involvement in the discovery and rescue of her child, or else...something darker, something worse. She suspects something 'a bit not good' about Toby's father. Something she has never forced herself to face before.

John watches me carefully.

"She doesn't seem angry Sherlock. Not at all. She's just extremely concerned about her son."

My mouth feels gummy. Sticky. I need to brush my teeth.

"And she wants me to talk to Toby," I repeat, slowly.

John wavers a bit.

"She wants to see if you can _get him to talk_. He hasn't said a word since he's awoken."

I glance at my watch.

"It's only been...what? Four or five hours?"

John nods.

"Even so, he won't make a sound. It's too premature to actually diagnosis him with anything, but the doctors think it's a result of shock. They are hoping they can get him to speak even a few words. To break through the silence."

"He was violently assaulted. Are they sure it's not something...neurological?," I test.

John shakes his head. "He was crying out in his sleep last night. Several hours before he awoke. There is no problem with him making actual sounds."

I put my violin on the side table, suddenly feeling bone-weary exhausted.

"I'm not a child psychologist, John. I can see patterns, connections, and it is obvious why this boy is engaging in selective mutism, even if - at present - it's too early to diagnosis anything. He's _terrified_. He's likely been threatened. Or perhaps he was hurt so violently because_ he tried to talk_. At any rate, there is an entire staff of trained clinicians to deal with traumatized children at Evelina. They do good work."

John's eyes squint microscopically, taking me in.

"No. I didn't go there. _No_."

He looks to his hands awkwardly.

"Didn't say anything, Sherlock."

"Evelina disbanded in 1976, and wasn't reopened until 2004. I was in clinic in 1989. The Priory," and the words rush from my mouth of their own power. Their own free will.

John takes in a strangled breath at the admission. Holds it. He's internally debating something, and I wish he'd hurry up and ask what it is he wants to know before this feeling of numbness departs. Before I can no longer allude to it, never mind be actually honest with him.

"Why?," he asks at last.

My hands curl around the bow, and I feel the horse hairs line up against my palm.

"I wouldn't eat," I admit, my voice sounding hollow and odd to my own ears. Almost as if another person is talking through me. Not me, not _Sherlock_. Normally, I'd be snarling at him for having the gall to even _ask_. Right now, however, I feel tired of denying, of running.

I feel tired of doing it alone.

John steps towards me on the soft padding of the main landing.

"How long did that last?," he asks gently. "You not eating?"

My mouth feels dry, and I'm sure if I took my pulse, it would be shaky. It would be fast and light and weak and sketchy.

Because I do feel _fear_. And I have no idea why.

_It's just John._

_Just John. _

_Your friend. _

_He's not going to judge me._

"Until they threatened to intubate me," I swallow, my chest feeling heavier than it did yesterday. Heavier than it did even the day before. The air in my lungs feels hot, and tumultuous. Like a summer thunderstorm, about to break open - but it's internal, it's bodily. It's inside, and it makes it even worse. "I tried," I get out at last, not knowing what I'm even saying anymore. Not knowing where the words are even coming from. Where they've been hiding all this time.

"I know you did."

I look down at the rug, at my shoes. At the black scuff mark on the side of the wall that Mrs. Hudson has missed.

"I was so scared."

"I know," my friend concedes.

"I couldn't stop what I was doing. I couldn't put it in my mouth. Any of it."

John's hand connects with mine. Cups mine. I feel his other hand at my lower back. Light pressure. Circular.

I close my eyes, let it wash over me. Get it over with. Let the thunderstorm break.

"Why couldn't you stop?," he asks gingerly, and his breath is warm and close to my cheek. Close to my mouth. It smells sweetly like mint toothpaste. I feel dizzy and overwhelmed - _and God what is wrong with me? Why is it all coming back?_

For one crazy, bizarre, lightheaded second I have a weird impulse to push my lips against his mouth. I blink rapidly against the image, feeling my heart crazily begin to speed up. I force my body away from his, even a few precious inches.

_What is wrong with me?_

"I don't know. I can't_ talk about this_!"

"Why couldn't you stop, Sherlock? Tell me," and he wants to know, and he wants me to trust him, and I don't know what will make it go away.

"I didn't want it in my body!," I exclaim, anger and fear now coming to the surface, _the image of John in my mind, my lips against his, and it's not real, none of it is real, and I don't think of him like that, and I could never_-

"I never wanted it in my body," I breathe out again, forcing myself to calm down. Forcing the images out. Not wanting to mix John up with these feelings. These feelings of it all being wrong. All of it being so _wrong_.

"Food?," he clarifies.

My hands grip the lapels of his coat. His black coat with a swatch of leather.

"_Him_."

I hear John swallow again, his hand slowing its motion on my back as my words register.

"I know, Sherlock," he gets out about 10 seconds later. His voice sounds sore.

I'm shaking my head back and forth. Because he doesn't. He doesn't _know_.

John's hands are curling up into fists. He's angry.

* * *

I'm just not sure if he's angry with _me._

Because we don't talk for awhile. He departs upstairs, shaves, changes clothes, and I flitter about the flat in a state of agitation.

"You have to call Lestrade."

"He was furious with me, John. I'm not going near him for awhile."

John comes closer, his eyes projecting Ultimate Seriousness. The "We are Brooking No Arguments Today, Sherlock" eyes.

I realize I can smell aftershave. It has a woodsy scent.

I suddenly feel dizzy again, and back away from him.

"No one - _no one, Sherlock, _aside from you - even suspects this is about molestation. The boy is not going to reveal that information on his own! You need to talk to Lestrade, and you need to speak to his mother. The sooner the better. For Toby's sake."

I rub a hand through my hair again.

"I need a shower. And I will need to stop by Tesco's first."

John nods, but his eyes scour my frame. Probably trying to ascertain why I need a shower again after getting one so late last night.

"I'll make us something to eat," he states at last.

His voice holds no brook of refusal.

* * *

I hold the bag of supplies - a box of 64 count crayons, sharpeners, markers, blank paper, lined paper, colouring books - in my hands.

We do not talk as the taxi navigates the labyrinthine corridors. I do not tell the cabbie the best way to avoid congestion near the Jubilee line, or that construction is occurring near Westminster Bridge Rd.

I'm relieved, of course, that Toby is recovering. Certainly far better and quicker than anyone had predicted. How could that not be the best sort of news?

But all the same - I am not looking forward to this visit. I don't want to look into those terribly young eyes and try to convince this child to talk. He obviously doesn't want to do so. I wish I could indulge him this one thing. I know what it is like to want - no, _need_ - just one small aspect of control. To not want someone to take everything away.

* * *

When we arrive at the segment of the hospital known as "the beach" (each area is decked out to resemble a terrain for various animals), John gives Lestrade a slight wave. Donovan assesses me coolly - probably still put out that I've been requested to talk to the boy when I violated basic rules of conduct so abominably.

We step into a conference room. It's merely the four of us, which surprises me.

"Where's Mrs. Thiesen?," I question.

"She's with her son. Reading to him," Lestrade responds, his eyes glancing at Donovan.

"Does he know that someone is coming to talk to him?," John queries.

Lestrade sighs, his voice heavy. "I don't know. But aside from that, there are a few things we have to quickly discuss with you, Sherlock. Certain rules you will follow, if you want any further involvement with this case."

I resist the impulse to tap on the table.

"Yes," I drawl. "Proceed."

"Firstly - and I want to get this out of the way right now: John has gone to bat for you. That's why you are sitting here at all, and not on my scrapped list."

I look away from John, feeling my face heat up. It's an out-of-place reaction.

"He mentioned you think that Toby was sexually assaulted," and it's Donovan's voice now. I turn to address her, and her eyes bore holes into me with their intensity. Her gaze holds an expression of something that is not irritation, not anger - but is rather a type of resigned acceptance. Of her continued partnership, so to speak, with me - or the seriousness of the upcoming discussion, I am not sure. But no...that's not it. _There is something else..._

_She's wondering why I lost my temper over this child._

_She still thinks I'm heartless enough not to care enough about such a subject._

_And now she's wondering what my angle is..._

"Mr. Thiesen is involved some how. I know it. I _feel_ it."

Lestrade nods, shares a look with John.

For a second, anxiety blooms in my bowels. For a second - I wonder if John has mentioned something more to Lestrade. Something more about me.

"That's the thing, though, Sherlock. You don't work off feelings. Certainly not exclusively. This case has been about leaps and jumps and intuition - and for you, that's strange. And you found this boy, and you found him when it counted, and we got to him in time, yes - but what do you have to support your suppositions?," Lestrade tries again, his eyes scanning my face - _back and forth, back and forth._

I clear my throat.

"Nothing conclusive," I admit. "Nothing that you'd find worthy of explanation."

"How about we be the judge of that for ourselves?" - Sally, this time.

I press my palms against the table, releasing the tension.

"When we were looking for Toby - when we thought this was an abduction case, possible ransom case - and we spoke to his teacher at the day school - she said some things to me that made me suspicious about Toby's home life."

"What things?," Donovan asks crisply. Lestrade has taken a backseat in questioning now, it seems.

"She told me that she had been concerned for Toby for awhile. That he had said and done things that she found inappropriate. Sexually inappropriate."

Donovan bristles at that.

"He's 9 years old. They start basic sex ed at his age. It's not unusual for boys to show a fascination in the subject. It's brand new to them."

I look to John. His eyes look wide and grounding.

"It wasn't brand new to Toby, that's the thing. His teacher is about to have a baby. Apparently Toby asked her some rather - intrusive questions."

Donovan shakes her head, as if not wanting my hunches to be anything more. I can't say I blame her.

"Again - he's curious. It's normal. Especially at that age."

"He asked her if she cried when the baby was being made."

Donovan's mouth screws up.

"He doesn't understand, Sherlock. End of story. He might have seen something on the telly. Something that scared him, and so he thinks sex equals pain."

I still my movements. Drop my hands by my side.

"His teacher told me that he asked her... if she screamed."

Lestrade's face immediately shifts. Takes on a sour look.

"What did she tell him?," John asks.

I exhale.

"She told me that she said that "making a baby" doesn't hurt. That it's only something adults do when they want to have a child, and that there is nothing _bad_ about it."

When I look up again, Donovan looks vaguely distressed.

"Anything else?," she asks, her voice fainter than before.

"The Thiesen's are wealthy. They have a personal housecleaner. Yet Toby has been hiding his own undergarments in his duffel bags, washing everything separately. It would be highly unlikely that he'd be going through puberty, so modesty doesn't really cover it. His mother told me he's very private, but I can sense she's had her own niggling little doubts about his behaviours for awhile now. He's taken to creating forts in his closet - again, a relatively normal activity for his age - except that he spends the majority of his time at home inside those constructions. He has no friends. His eating is scanty. He doesn't sleep well. His energy levels vacillate between excessive, almost manic, and sluggish. The photos I have seen of him do not show an ease or warmth. He holds himself apart from others. He appears emotionally stunted. He isn't physically demonstrative. When he is upset, apparently he reverts to acting like a much younger child."

Lestrade nods, taking in the information. Seeing the picture as something that could allude to a darker history.

"Well," he pauses, "You'll be the perfect person for him to speak to then, I guess."

His answering grin starts to falter when I don't respond. In fact, I quickly look to John.

He's shaking his head lightly, looking visibly stressed.

_No._

_No. I didn't say anything. _

**_No._**

"Is that supposed to be some sort of joke?," I hiss a moment later.

Lestrade glances at Donovan. Suddenly looks peevish.

"I'm sorry. That wasn't appropriate. Just trying to-"

"You can't lighten the mood, Detective Inspector. This child has been _attacked_."

Lestrade closes his eyes. Glances at his subordinate.

"Okay. I just meant - you'll get him. Be able to relate to him, perhaps. That's all."

I can feel my mouth turning into a sneer.

"I'll "get him"? Pray tell - what does that mean?"

"Damnit Sherlock. You know what I mean!"

When I look over to John once more, I can see his head is still moving. Oh so slightly.

_He's telling me to lay off. _

_Let it go._

"Am I doing this alone?," I ask at last, biting my tongue and letting the previous matter rest. "Talking to him, I mean?"

Lestrade moves forward in his chair a bit.

"No. No, you'll conduct the interview with Donovan."

"And his mother?"

Lestrade sighs.

"It's unlikely that Toby will talk - or write, as it may be - about much if his mother is present. You'll have to use to a video recorder to ensure anything recorded can be substantiated in a way that would be defensible in court. It's standard procedure when talking to children without a parent."

I rise from the table.

"Let's get on with it, then."

* * *

"I understand, Mrs. Thiesen, but we want to make this easier for your son."

Donovan is trying to soothe the worked up woman.

"He's barely regained consciousness! And now you want to talk to him, without someone he knows present? What makes you think he's going to talk to you at all? He's not even talking to me!"

"Mrs. Thiesen," I state, as calmly as possible. "Your son will not talk, we realize this. But he is using other mediums to communicate, correct? What is the likelihood he will draw or write anything that will allow us to help - given what we've told you of our suspicions - if you are present?"

The woman suddenly pales.

"Are you stating that I'm involved?"

I look to Sally, hoping she can better express our position.

"No. Not all all. But we want Toby to talk to us. He's the only one who really knows what happened, and he's not talking for a reason. Yes, he's likely very scared - that is true. But some of this is could also be shame. It is also unlikely - if my colleague's concerns are correct - that Toby will mention anything in your presence," Donovan says, in one of those victim-soothing voices.

_'Colleague...'_

_The last time she used that word in relation to me, it was in mockery._

"But I'm his _mother_," Mrs. Thiesen suddenly rasps, as if this fact has gone unnoticed by all us.

"All the more reason it would be hard for him to talk with you there," I state evenly. "He cares about your opinion of him. He will not willingly discuss anything we need to discuss with you present."

Mrs. Thiesen wipes at her eyes.

"If he gets upset, I want you to stop," she warbles. ''He has gone through enough.''

I meet her eyes.

"He likely will not be open to communicating with us, but we will not push him. I promise you that."

* * *

Donovan opens the door to the room, and softly makes her way inside, looking at me as if unsure how to proceed. She's been glancing at me far more than would be typical. Staring, studying. It's a little unnerving.

"You'd be best to do the introductions," I whisper, clearing my throat. ''He'll likely be less stressed by the presence of a strong female than by any male, no matter how gently I talk to him.''

She seems to accept this as acceptable, and moves closer to the bed.

Toby is resting under what look like three or four blankets. His hair has been washed since the last time I saw him, and the swelling has gone down from his eyes. Only one eye is open - the other is still swollen shut. The opened eye is red rimmed and looks unnaturally large. _Hyphema._ Stitching at the corner informs me that it has probably been cut open with a scalpel in the last day or so to release blood; a necessity in periods where blood accumulates and potentially distorts vision due to clotting. Most often cause: head trauma, especially decompression injuries.

The boy watches us carefully as we approach, his back leaning into the bedframe as if to pull away. It's obvious he's not happy about the prospect of having visitors right now.

"It's okay, Toby. My name is Sally and this is-," and Donovan studies me for a moment, probably trying to ascertain how to word our relationship using a term other than_ freak_, "my colleague. His name is Sherlock. We are detectives."

It's probably the most generous description that I'm likely to ever get from Sally Donovan.

Toby looks back down to his lap. He has been reading, apparently, and now goes back to looking at the pages. His free arm flips a page, while his casted arm comes up closer across his chest. It's a defensive position. From the distance, I can see scribbles from where, undoubtedly, nursing staff has signed him well wishes. Very likely, all acquired in the last few hours.

_No wonder he's overwhelmed._

"Can we sit down, Toby?," Donovan tries again. "Would that be okay with you?"

The boy looks back up slightly, not meeting our faces. Finally he nods.

"Thank you," Donovan says warmly, taking a nearby chair and pushing one closer to me.

She deftly takes the recording equipment and turns it on, laying it down gently on the side table. Toby watches the proceedings soundlessly, and goes back to reading his novel.

When the camera begins to blink in red tandem with the other medical equipment, Donovan turns to me, her mouth pursed.

_Showtime._

"You are probably wondering why we are here," Donovan begins softly, her voice lilting into a question.

The boy shrugs, his fingertips ghosting over a page of _Harry Potter and The Prisoner of Azkaban_.

"Well, we were involved in helping to find you. When you were missing," she continues on, the boy's shoulders hunching up. His small eye is scanning the page far too quickly to be reading.

I lean forward slightly.

"I've never read any of these Harry Potter books. Should I give them a shot?," and I point to the novel.

I have no intention of reading them, of course, but I'm hoping the question will help break the ice.

Toby looks up, studies me as best as he can. Part of me wonders if he remembers anything about that night._ About how I picked him up, his eyes spasming in his small skull as if he were having a seizure. The animal-like scream in his throat as he pushed at me. John's shouting in the background for an ambulance. For the..._

_ ''goddamn paramedics!''_

He had been somewhat lucid - but only for a few moments - and then he had passed out, prompting me to cradle his head with my hand and hold his body into my coat, trying to keep his temperature up. _He had been so cold. And covered in blood._

I swallow down a butterfly of nerves now, wondering how much he recalls.

"Do you remember me, Toby?"

His good eye drops down to his lap. He seems hesitant to either nod or shake his head in the negative.

"That was a scary night, wasn't it?," I whisper.

I see his small throat swallow reflexively, his hands - one in a sling - tense and release in fear.

"We don't have to talk about that night, if you don't want to," I say evenly, hopefully my tone reassuring enough that he doesn't shut down on us entirely.

After a few seconds, he shakes his head.

I give him a terse smile.

"That's alright. I got you some things to colour with, and some notepads and markers so you can write if you'd like."

I put a bag of art supplies near his bed, and he looks at the bag sceptically - as if it's a dog, and not brown paper. As if it could bite him, or actually do him harm.

"Do you want to see what I brought for you?"

His little shoulders bunch up, but his body seems less stressed. I take the motion to mean 'ok.'

_'Okay.'_

Donovan watches the entire transaction intensely, doing a better job at recording my movements than the actual camera.

When the puzzle books and majority of the markers and colouring sheets have been removed from the bag, I bunch everything together and put it near his side table, so he'll have easy access after we've left.

"Maybe we can use the crayons now?," I try. "On this paper, here?"

I won't push him, no. But he's so shut down that he'll likely need someone to help him along right now.

Toby looks at the box of Crayola crayons and touches it with his good hand, softly.

I open the yellow box, and hold it out to him.

"Why don't you take your favourite colour and I'll take my favourite colour, and we can write to one another?"

He's not stupid. He understands why we are here - Donovan and myself - but he's doing resoundingly well all the same.

I give him a slight smile in what will be taken as - I hope - further encouragement.

He holds a chartreuse crayon in his hand.

"Green is a great colour. And that one is just like fresh grass, isn't it?"

Toby nods, then opens his mouth as if to speak. I do not look at him, in case it is an actual attempt to say something. Any perceived pressure is likely to shut him down in a hurry. Eventually his mouth moves into an O shape, and then closes upon itself, his baby teeth cutting into his lip.

"This is my favourite colour," I say a moment later, to break the silence. I hold up an aubergine coloured crayon and scribble on the pad of paper.

He watches me with a hawk's vision.

"How about we try writing our names?"

I scribble down SHERLOCK in capital letters, and then return the pad of paper to the child.

He takes a few seconds longer cleanly writing out Toby. He writes it as "toby." All lowercase. The text is abnormally small. I try not to frown at the reveal.

"How about I try writing you a question? And you can try writing back to me?"

Toby tenses but doesn't look away.

I think for a few brief seconds, and scrawl down _"what is your favourite food?"_

Toby reads the message and seems to relax, somewhat.

_chips and gravy_

I smile, thinking. I need an in. A way to get this little boy to open up, without scaring him off right away; I scan the room, then hurriedly write back _Digestive biscuits_.

It's a lie, of course. My favourite food never has never been and will never be digestives, but I can see a small sealed packet on his breakfast tray. Untouched. Not even opened. In fact, none of his food looks touched - something that Donovan herself noticed almost immediately after sitting down.

Not that Toby is, by his natural build, excessively lean. There is nothing to indicates he under eats habitually. In no way does he physically resemble myself as a child - which is probably for the best. Now, as I study him, and try to imagine his face without the bruising and the bandages, I realize that if he resembles anyone at all, anyone I know - it would be _John._

_He looks like John must have looked as a child._

I quickly, inconspicuously, try to take in his demeanor and his form. His frame is solid, but he's lost weight recently. It shows in his face. His body doesn't naturally edge towards lanky or gangly, I can tell, so the weight loss doesn't accent natural thinness. It just makes him look sickly. He has well defined muscles, but also carries no excess weight. A standard, but physically healthy mesomorph. He's shorter than I would have been at 9 years of age - and I could tell this quickly just from the night when I had picked him up. He's likely not even in the 4 foot range yet. His face is round and full, but not chubby. His eyes are dark blue, normally, but are now marred by intracranial bleeding, and the sclera is now a disturbing rosy pink. He's a towhead, but his hair is starting to darken into something sandy.

When I look back down at the boy, pulled by the flurry of movement, he's holding the packet of unopened digestives in his hand. He's holding them out for _me._

I look at Donovan briefly, and her eyes are downcast.

"You want me to have these?," I test, while Toby scrawls down _yes_ in green crayon.

"Thank you," I mutter, trying to push a sudden wave of sadness away.

_He even acts like John._

"Would you like a biscuit, Sally?"

Donovan, for her part, looks totally thrown off course, and I smile slightly as I chomp down on the snack. I really didn't plan to share with her, anyway.

"It doesn't look like you've eaten much of your breakfast," I say a moment later, mouth still slightly full with biscuit. "It must be hard to eat with the cast."

Toby shrugs, then goes back to staring at his book. He abruptly closes it, his eyes flashing up to mine suddenly.

Suddenly, there is a look I distantly recognize.

And suddenly I have an awful sense of what is going on, and again - it is more than a feeling, but it is not really based on anything physically demonstrative. All the same, I can't just ignore it. I look back at his tray.

_He's consumed his orange juice._

_He's pecked at the oatmeal._

_He hasn't touched the fruit, or the biscuits._

He'll consume liquids, but he's hesitant to eat solid food. And his throat was not injured. He should be able to swallow normally.

I finish the first biscuit, and then tuck the remaining package into my coat pocket - aiming for relative nonchalance when I speak next.

"Does it hurt if you eat?"

Toby holds the green crayon with a tighter grasp now.

_yes_, he writes. The letters are firm, rigid. Something about admitting that is upsetting to him._ Stressful to him._

"Does it hurt your throat, or does it hurt somewhere else?"

He stares at me intensely, his small hand dropping down by his side.

After a few seconds, I ask, "Can you write down on the paper where you hurt?"

Toby looks back up at me faster now, his teeth making deeper indentations into his bottom lip. His face is scrunched up by the request.

"Do you want me to maybe guess? And you can write yes or no?"

He looks away from me miserably, his eyes rapidly filling with tears.

I close my own eyes, not knowing what to say. With an adult, with an adult whose not been hurt - it's so _easy_. It hardly matters what you say, then, provided you get to the truth.

I finally secure the brown paper bag, and look through some of the sheets I printed out from the internet this morning. When I find what I need, I pull them out and show them to Donovan. She looks over to the boy, then back to me. "Okay," she says softly.

I put the new papers down on Toby's lap, and his eye moves over the sheets.

They look like colouring sheets, but they are sketchings of a boy. Four pages of fairly detailed reproductions of a child's form. There is a front view, right and left side views, and a view of the backside. The cartoon is, of course, lacking clothes, and is anatomically precise.

"Can you maybe colour on here, Toby? Colour the parts of you that hurt right now?"

The little boy takes one of the sheets and pulls it close, staring at it. He suddenly reaches for the box of crayons and pulls out a crimson stick, putting the green crayon back in the box. The fact that he has switched to a red crayon is not lost on me. Toby then quickly colours in the left side of the head, pushing heavily onto the paper. He finally scratches out the eyes of the boy, pressing holes completely through the paper with the force of his strokes.

Then he shows me his handiwork. I instantly recognize the anger and the horror behind his colouring job. The head of the boy has almost been torn away from the rest of the paper.

"Your head and eyes hurt," I reiterate, noticing that his breathing seems to be increasing.

I hold the sheet stationary for him, so it doesn't shake. His body is, in fact, trembling.

"Yes, someone hurt your head and your eyes very badly, didn't they? And the doctors are going to help you heal. Soon, your head and eyes won't hurt anymore."

I let my own line of sight fall back to the paper.

"Does anywhere else hurt?"

Toby grabs the paper back and places it against the novel. After a few seconds he starts scrawling deep red strokes throughout the abdomen region on the cartoon boy.

When the frantic motions stop, I study the paper once more.

"Your stomach hurts?"

He nods sharply, his hands grasping onto the paper and pulling it back. He's obviously not finished just yet.

"What else?," I prompt. ''What else hurts?''

The child looks up at me abruptly, his open eye widening in fear.

"It's okay. I promise you, no one is going to get mad at you. We want to help get rid of any pains in your body. We need to know where there is pain. And once you tell us, you won't have to tell us about the pain again. Those questions will be done."

He looks back down at the sheet of paper, over to Donovan, then back over to me.

_Someone has threatened him._

Donovan leans forward slightly.

"Do you think you can be brave, Toby? Like Harry? Just like that?," she asks him slowly.

Toby takes the paper back in a flourish. His hand is shaking profusely now.

He curls the paper up again so we cannot see his movements, and begins to colour once more. After a few seconds he stops, and looks at me. Looks at an additional sheet laying on the bed.

"This one, too?," I ask hoarsely.

He just stares. Finally, he nods. It is a bare fraction of a nod, but I catch it.

"Okay," I say, and lean over to hand him the other page.

He takes it slowly, then likewise curls up the edges and colours at an angle that doesn't reveal much of what he's doing, or where he's colouring.

After a few seconds he pauses. Puts down the crayon.

"All done?," I ask with forced calmness. I feel anything but calm.

He nods and hands me the pages, both turned over to the white unprinted sides.

I walk a few paces back to my seat, and when I am sufficiently away from his line of sight, I slowly turn the sheets over.

Toby's marked the bottom half of both pages from the hip region to the mid thighs in coarse, cutting lines of red. I exhale slowly, trying not to let the air rattle out as I do.

I turn and look at Donovan, and show her the pages. Within seconds, her head is shaking in an almost unconscious protest to what she is seeing. She finally folds the pages up, and tucks them into her coat.

"It hurts between your legs," I state after I've composed myself well enough to speak without Toby hearing my anger. "And it hurts, inside. Front and back."

The words are less than precise. But I can't do clinical right now. I can't call it by name. Not with that wandering, blood red eye of the child flittering up over a sea of white blankets, not even wanting to look at the paper, look at the crayons. Certainly not wanting to look at me.

Toby turns away from us slightly, and lets out a barking cough, congested with tears. He knows what he's just revealed, and the force and impact of what he's just admitted to is probably starting to hit him now. Sally moves closer and crouches down by his bed.

"Toby? Can you look at me?''

The boy shakes his head. _'No.'_

''You did really well, honey. That's it for now, alright? No more questions today. We're done for now."

Toby brings his casted arm up over his face and turns into his pillow, as if to block us from his sight.

Before I leave his room, I bend down and pick up a snowy owl stuffed animal that has fallen onto the floor. It's grimy and obviously well loved - a security item that he has probably had since his infancy. I lay it gently on the bed, not wanting to touch him directly. A moment later, the boy's arm blindly reaches out for the doll and pulls it away from me, holding it close to his mouth.

Donovan turns off the video recorder, and we leave without saying anything else.


	6. Observe

**Title - Shadow Child - Part 6**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **I take a step back, my heart fluttering in my chest. The look of rage I had seen a moment before is rapidly draining from my friend's face. "Did I - did I hurt you?," Sherlock clarifies, his eyes closed. Unwilling to look. / Hints of Johnlock. Angst. Warnings for child abuse/ non-con.

**Author's Note:** As always, I feel guilty when I don't get chapters up more frequently than I have been (and then I get nervous because I hate not getting chapters up regularly, so I tend to procrastinate on the very task that is making me anxious in the first place. A bad downward spiral, you see). I think I'm going to have to assign myself a 'writing task' of a half hour a day, or something. sighs. Better late than never, eh?

* * *

**_John's POV_**

_''I didn't say all the things that I wanted to say, and you can't take back what's been taken away.'' - Plumb, Damaged_

* * *

A soft tap at the door causes Lestrade's head to swish up in an arc.

''Come in, guys,'' he says resignedly.

''It's just me,'' Donovan starts, looking apprehensive and subdued. ''Sherlock...well he left in a hurry.''

''Left?,'' I question dully, feeling vaguely apprehensive.

Donovan lets out a strained exhalation, and pulls out two crumpled sheets of paper from her inner jacket pocket. She lays them on the table, and Lestrade reaches for them - turning them over in a flourish. I swallow down a lump at the child cartoon covered in lashes of red.

''What's this?,'' he asks dully, turning to look at me. I know then that he already knows what Donovan is going to say. But he's a father, a father of three - and his youngest is only a year younger than Toby. And he wants to delay the inevitable truth that is about to be revealed.

''Sherlock couldn't get the boy to speak - but he could get him to write down words with a crayon, and also - to do _that._'' And she points to the sheets of paper as if they are venomous. ''It was pretty obvious the little kid wasn't going to tell us on his own, and-''

''So this is where he was hurt?,'' I ask carefully. I can't see any other thing that this could really mean, unfortunately.

Donovan nods, and indicates to the second page of scrawling.

''He's going to need an internal exam - and we are going to have to inform the mother as soon as possible.''

Lestrade sits down, pushing the drawings off to one side as if to get them out of his sight.

_''Christ almighty_ - this little boy _was_ raped. Sherlock knew it from the start.''

Donovan's mouth is puckered as if she's tasted something sour.

''It couldn't be anything...too recent. He was looked over briefly for signs of assault when they admitted him. Mind you it was cursory - not internal - but...''

''Or it could mean that he's just not bleeding any longer or bleeding_ enough_ to have raised the suspicions of the attending physician,'' I get out, my throat and chest abnormally tight. ''And a child that's been abused for a long time would very likely not fight back if sexual abuse was commonplace, so there wouldn't necessarily been any bruising on the thighs or rest of the body...''

''Sherlock said he'd need an internal, and he had that look in his eyes - you know the one - like he's seeing something that no one else can see?,'' Donovan tries again, her breath coming out in a rattle. ''And for once in his life he seemed to care about someone else too, so-''

''Oh come off it Sally!,'' I hiss, suddenly feeling angry and sad and miserable. But mostly sad. ''Let it rest, alright? Sherlock's not the demon you think he is. He's not a psychopath, or a sociopath or whatever incorrect label he's tacked onto himself. He's just a person who finds it hard to relate to others. But can we lay off the Sherlock-bashing for one case, please?''

The woman before me opens her mouth, then closes it abruptly. Her cheeks are flushed. I either look really, really mad - or she realizes she's been really, really wrong.

''I know that, John, okay? I mean before today, I didn't really _understand_ it. I hadn't seen that side to him yet - and that's probably my fault, too. But he was remarkably careful with that little boy. It was like a different person in there and-''

I cut her off, knowing I shouldn't. Knowing such an outburst is akin to shining a spot light onto Sherlock, and some small dark figure in the back of my mind is begging me to STOP. Telling me that these are _detectives too_. And yet a 'look deeper' sign has been tacked to his chest since the beginning. I felt it on day one. I heard it early on - when he questioned 'why?' all the time. _Why do people do that?_ and _Why do people think like this, John?_ Why, why, why. **WHY?**

**As if he were half man, half child. As if he could simultaneously see more deeply than anyone I had ever known, but couldn't appreciate the human motivations behind the actions. He could piece the puzzle together, but when he stepped back to look at the finished product - his take on the art was always with the words of someone young, someone vulnerable. **

**Brilliant, but vulnerable.**

_'This is my...friend. John Watson.'_

**_And they never bothered to bloody look. _**So I can't really help it any longer. I can't stop the words from bubbling out of my throat.

''Did you ever consider it's just an act? One big act to keep people away? To keep people from looking too deeply?''

My throat feels bruised, and I suddenly realize I've said too much. And yet, at the same time - I've hardly said anything. I've hardly done anything to address the years of taunting, of name calling.

Lestrade frowns at the drawings, then at the desk - quickly meeting Sally's eyes.

''Look - I'm admitting it, John! I saw a different side to him today, and I know it doesn't change the past - but I honestly think he can help this kid. We keep him on.''

Lestrade nods.

''I agree. You were saying he was adamant about an exam? Christ - he'd not press for it unless he thought it vital, either.''

Donovan lets out a pent up breath at that.

''He's been washed, his wounds tended to - there is a good possibility that we won't find DNA anyway.''

Lestrade continues to nod at the table, while I take a seat - my heart pounding violently. Angry that they'd overlook the moral obviousness of the situation - _that DNA matters far, far less than addressing a little child's pain...and now, with Sherlock..._

''How did he seem when he left?,'' I ask suddenly.

''Sherlock, or the boy?,'' Donovan clarifies. It's a reasonable question, I guess.

''_Sherlock, _Sally.''

''He was quiet. He looked...off. Strange. Paler than normal, and we all know that he's about pale as a ghost normally. I thought it best to leave him alone.''

I get up abruptly.

''John, I am su-''

I wave away her comments - her certitude - with my hand.

''I am going to go look for him. I'd advise you inform Mrs. Thiesen that her little boy is going to require another exam as soon as possible. If Sherlock insisted on it, then it's not just to cover all bases as a technicality point. It's because this kid is wounded...and badly enough to warrant being seen by a doctor again.''

Suddenly I am out of the room, out into the hall with the buzzing and beeping and creaking and the noise of intercoms and elevators and frayed, fried halogens crackling before me.

I take a deep breath and make my way quickly back to the direction of Toby's room, stopping at the closest nurse's station.

A brown haired nurse in her late 40's is filling out a form, and eyes me approaching the desk.

''John Watson. I'm consulting with the Yard about one of the children who was admitted yesterday, and I'm looking for a detective,'' I say easily. ''He would have left the room a few moments ago? A little over 6 ft, dark curly hair - thin?'' I use my hand as an approximate gauge to indicate Sherlock's height.

The woman stops, thinks for a second. Purses her lips.

''I think he went past the vending machines about 10 minutes back? Something like that - wearing a blue coat?,'' she says gruffly, already consumed with her task and returning to her work.

_That's him._

''Ta,'' I say softly, padding off in the general direction she indicated.

I look around the vending machines, check the family room and TV lounge. Take a peak in a small café on the floor that is serving tea, coffee and a soup of the day (''Garden Vegetable Medley''), apparently - continue on down the hall until I see a large blue and white sign for the restrooms. Rap against the door gently with my knuckles, then open the door and go inside.

* * *

At first I don't hear or see anything.

A second later I hear a shuddery breath and a congested wheeze, followed by the unmistakable sound of a person vomiting.

Very quietly, that is. If water was running, you'd miss the sound entirely. But it comes up in a spurt of liquid-intensity.

Then panting.

More vomiting.

''Sherlock?,'' I say softly, though my voice seems to reverberate and come out far more loudly than the sound of the man retching up at the end of the hallway.

I tread carefully, stopping when I see the familiar black boots, the swoosh and flow of a navy blue trench. The blue scarf has been discarded to the floor - probably to keep it away from the line of sick.

I pat once more against the stall with the back of my hand, my body frozen in place. The vomiting has seemed to stop, but the sound of gasping - _and something else, something I can't identify_ - streams out into the air.

''Please leave me alone,'' comes the voice - soft, barely there. A cloud, a couple words plumed out into the air like smoke.

''Sherlock?,'' I try again, feeling helpless.

_Please don't shut me out._

**_Please._**

When I don't get a response, I open the door slightly - as it hasn't been locked.

My friend is gripping the toilet with white knuckled hands. His back is to me, and his knees look like they are going to buckle.

I rush to his side, and help support him around his midsection, while a new bout of vomit comes up.

''Go away!,'' he pants, leaning over again to rid his stomach of whatever had been in there moments ago.

''Nothing I haven't seen before,'' I mutter, one hand pressed into the core of his belly, the other to the small of his back.

''Come on. Let yourself sit down,'' I add a moment later.

''It won't come out,'' Sherlock whispers, his hands grasping the porcelain, his mouth choking on spit. ''There's more inside.''

I help him away from the toilet, and grab some tissue before he goes down in a heap.

''If I don't get it out now, it's going to come up later,'' he gasps out, still trying to get air into his lungs.

''Try to calm down. The feeling might go away on its own, and I doubt you had much in your belly to start with...''

Sherlock closes his eyes at that, seemingly calming down. After a few seconds, he opens his eyes again and ice blue meet my own with stunning fervor.

''I'm sorry,'' he starts, as if on impulse.

I frown, pick up his scarf off the floor. Dust it off on my lap.

''What in the world do you have to apologize for, Sherlock?''

He squirms against the tile, blotting at his mouth.

''Please - I'm good now. I promise. Please _go_.''

While typically I would abide by his request, this time I know it's only a matter of time before Lestrade trails back here looking for him just as I did.

''Not going to happen,'' I whisper. ''The others are wondering where you are as it is...,'' I mutter, my hand floating in the air - inches from his back. I finally let my hand drop to my side.

''Still feeling nauseated?,'' I ask dumbly. ''Or has it passed?''

''Mmmm...'mokay,'' he gets out, still staring at the toilet bowl.

''Let's flush that now, why don't we?,'' and I reach over to pull the lever, watching in a sort of abject fascination at just what Sherlock could have brought up this morning. From the look of things, it's not much - which doesn't surprise me in the slightest. He's a paltry enough eater at the best of times.

I stare at the remains whirl down the drain: a white, mushy substance that is undoubtedly crackers or biscuits. Possibly toast. The smell of bile assaults my nostrils, and I move away quickly.

''Still feeling like you might be ill? Do you want to head home?''

Sherlock shakes his head resolutely.

''I'm not...sick. I'm fine, I-''

''The vomit I just flushed away seems to contradict your words there, bud.''

Sherlock moves away from the toilet, buttoning up his jacket. His hands are still shaking.

''I'm sure the others can continue on today without your assistance,'' I try once more. ''We can tell them you are feeling sick and-''

Sherlock starts to shake his head quickly back and forth at that - rising shakily on deer thin legs.

''Just leave it. I don't want them to know!''

''We can say you have a flu,'' I try to offer, reasonably. ''But you look _sick_, and they are not idiots.''

''Yes they are,'' he grouses.

I smirk at that, helping him reaffix his scarf.

''Come on...let's get tidied up.''

My friend cups his face in his hands.

''They'll know. They'll know _why_.''

I sigh, then crouch down along the wall, sitting side by side to Sherlock. Our bodies touch in the center, and that's with us using a handicap stall with the additional space for a wheelchair. Normally we'd have to have had this little chat in a hallway or a private room - like all the other normal people. Not crouched down by a toilet in a handicap space with grouting on the tiles and the scent of lemon disinfectant in the air.

''Sherlock - all they will know is that a very disturbing case with a traumatized little boy has impacted you. It'll give Donovan something to think about next time she wants to call you Freak, now won't it?''

Sherlock crosses him arms, brings them over his knees.

''No one_ else_ is throwing up in the toilets, though.''

I fix him with a glare. A glare without much heat, but a glare all the same.

''So you're not a robot. So they were_ wrong._ So everyone who thought you were heartless and cold and unfeeling was foolish, and stupid and _wrong_. And now you can throw in their faces if they dare make mention of it. Other than that - this isn't like you anyway. When do you care what other people think?''

He doesn't seem to be listening. His hands are wringing against the material of his jacket.

''You are not observing, John. You don't _get it_ and I can't make you get it, and I don't want you to get it and-''

I grab for one of his hands impulsively.

''Woah. Hold on. Take a breath, okay? What am I not getting? Tell me.''

He doesn't meet my eyes.

''I wasn't sick,'' he mutters, his throat swallowing convulsively, his hand holding onto mine with greater force than before.

A smirk passes over my features.

''I beg to differ. Perhaps we have different definitions as to what constitutes _getting sick_, but-''

''No. I felt like I had to throw up but I didn't feel _sick_,'' he says stiffly. _''Do you see_?''

His hand is cold and clammy and holding onto mine with such force now. And he's right - **_I don't get it_**. I finally let my other hand trail up to his back, to the nape of his neck. I apply light pressure there, feel him tremble, then frown.

''Can you tell me what that means? What does that even mean?''

He looks up at me quickly, as if jolted.

''Forget it,'' he whispers.

''Sherlock-''

''Forget it! Let it go! It's not going to happen again, anyway!''

He stands up quickly then, wipes his mouth on some more toilet paper, then moves to exit the stall. I respond first, and slam the door closed. Something is not right.

**_Something is so wholly _not_ right._**

''Stop it right now and explain. _Explain_ now. What is going on?''

Sherlock swallows again, his eyes burning around the clasp of my hand on the door frame as if trying to burn away my presence with his line of sight.

''I don't know what I meant!_ Please_ let me go.''

I squint at him, running his words through my head.

_'You don't get it and I can't make you get it, and I don't want you to get it...'_

It's his **_please_ **that finally gets to me.

''Okay. This time. But you start to feel bad again, you tell me - okay?,'' and I reach for his head out of a doctor's impulse. Feel around his temple with the pads of my fingertips, and then take note of the sweat around his ears: the wet-matted curls against his skull.

''You sure you don't feel nauseated?,'' I clarify again. Because he's sweaty, but he's certainly not running a fever. If anything he feels too cold, and-

_oh shit._

''Do you feel lightheaded? Hmmm? Do you feel like you've been doused in cold water? Numb limbs, Sherlock? Unreal?''

I mentally go through the symptoms of shock, wondering if he's just had his fill of overwhelm: his limit of bad images and horrific memories.

''I'm not in shock, John,'' Sherlock says gruffly, moving past me. His cheeks - I note - are pink. As if embarrassed.

I let him pass to the sinks, where he washes up meticulously - and I do the same, scrubbing around the webbing of my fingertips, then blow drying my hands under the dryer.

''Hold on...one thing...''

_''John!_''

''Let me feel your throat. You could be coming down with something. I want to check your glands.''

The eye roll that follows my words is actually what puts me at ease, but I give him an _I'm serious_ look, and hear him sigh.

''I'm not physically sick, alright?,'' he utters softly, not meeting my eyes.

I let my hand trail up to his throat, and I press lightly along the back to where his throat dips around near his ears, and then I move forward until my fingertips are stroking and feeling for swelling around his Adam's apple. I finally reach for his hand and take his pulse before he can stop me.

''For _god's sake_,'' he complains in softest utterance, swallowing once more as if nervous.

''It's fast, and thready. You didn't bring up much, but it could still be compounded with low blood sugar. What's your blood pressure at as an average? Do you know?''

''85/50,'' he answers, clipped. ''At last exam, anyway.''

''_Mmmm_,'' and I'm sure my face takes on a disapproving cast. ''That's edging towards too low to be healthy. If you were an athlete - _maybe_ - but as a natural-''

''I will take a kip when we get back to Baker St. I will be okay, John. I won't let myself get sick again,'' and his words are insistent and strong and said with such intensity that I feel temporarily relieved. But only slightly - as he's still not meeting my eyes. At that moment the door to the washroom opens and Lestrade ducks his head in.

''We're about to speak to Toby's mother. Do you want to be present for that, or have you had your fill of stuff today, Sherlock?''

Sherlock's eyes suddenly break complete contact with mine, and his mouth clamps shut while he takes a step back from us both, as if to get his bearings.

''I'm fine. _Completely fine_,'' he says firmly, an edge of something sharp and harsh and unyielding in his tone.

''Okay - well, good,'' Lestrade starts awkwardly. ''Then we are situated in the conference room. B17. Come as soon as you are ready. You seem to put Mrs. Thiesen at ease.''

Lestrade departs quickly then, leaving us alone again.

After a few seconds, Sherlock reaches for the handle to follow the DI.

''I'm going to be fine.''

I nod with reservation, somewhat off put by the insistence.

* * *

''Is that what he said?,'' Mrs. Thiesen barely gets out. ''Did he speak to you?''

Donovan looks over at me, then glances over to Sherlock. Of course, Sherlock isn't looking at anyone: he is tracing lines of the conference table with his right index finger. Loops or swirls. Or he's possibly spelling out a word or a name. It's really hard to say.

''He didn't say anything vocally, Ma'am - but from the sheets and his interactions he indicated that he's in...pain. He'll need to be re-examined.''

Mrs. Thiesen turns away suddenly, her shoulders shaking. It takes me a second to realize that she's crying silently.

''Can it be done later?,'' she gets out after a moment - her eyes trying to meet Sherlock's. ''He's gone through so much today as it is.''

That connection that has been there from the beginning seems to have intensified this morning - undoubtedly because Sherlock was the one who made the initial connection with Toby. Who actually _found_ Toby, who provided the mouth to mouth resuscitation and CPR that saved the child's life. Who got pink back into a small face that had been a ghastly shade of blue. And who then had wrapped the child up in his jacket and had cradled him to his chest, keeping him as protected from the rain and the wind as possible.

Sherlock finally looks up, his eyes pained.

''He indicated that it hurts him now. A doctor should see to him as soon as possible. If he's cut or if he's ble-''

At Mrs. Thiesen's look, Sherlock abruptly stops talking - then looks to my left, then back down to the table.

He seems to be debating something, and I see him gulp before speaking yet again.

''Your little boy is extremely scared right now. He's scared and he's hurt and he's ashamed in a way that no child should ever have to experience. But he's experiencing it right now, and he's likely been ashamed and hurt for some time. So he's going to need to be able to rely on you to help him through this. He needs to know you can be strong enough to help him cope right now, or he'll not be able to deal with this properly.''

''I can't force him on anything else - don't you see that?,'' Mrs. Thiesen gets out, her voice breaking off into a sob while Lestrade offers her over a box of tissues.

''He's not speaking, which is bad enough - yes, you're right. But allowing him to keep all the things in his head to himself isn't going to help him in the end. He could begin to regress, to dissociate - and you don't want that to happen to him. It'll make it that much harder for him to address what has happened to him. That much harder to heal.''

Mrs. Thiesen is shaking her head back and forth quickly.

''If he doesn't want to talk about it, he doesn't have to! I'm not pushing my son. We will...solve this a _different_ way.''

Sherlock bites his lip then moves forward slightly in his chair, his eyes flickering over to Mrs. Thiesen's, and then back down to the desk.

''Please listen to me - and hear me when I say this: Toby_ needs_ to feel. He may not like those feelings at first, but it's better he gets them out now. Whatever is inside him is like...shards of glass. Clear, hard to detect - but sharp, painful. Right now your son is full of broken glass, and if you don't remove the glass - if you leave him alone to tune everything out and deny what's happened - it'll hurt less now, that's true. But then the skin will grow back over the top of all his wounds and the glass will still be there. Inside of him. And one day he'll be grown up, and the glass will still be inside him and it will hurt for him to _move_. Hurt for him to _walk_. Even normal things will hurt him and innocuous things will scare him, and seem painful. Do you understand what I'm telling you?''

I catch Donovan's look - hawkish and severe as she glances over to Sherlock, alarmed. For a second, I think she's going to interrupt - going to intervene. I hold up my hand, gently - indicate that she should hold off with a slight wave. She looks back at me, eyes owlish and huge in her petite face.

''They told me yesterday that it was lucky that Toby wasn't conscious because with the injury to his skull, his brain - they wouldn't want to administer sedatives,'' the woman says tensely. ''And now you are saying that Toby needs to be examined like that? While he's awake? Can they even give him anything?''

Sherlock winces with realization.

_This kid is coming out of a mild coma. They are not going to sedate him with a concussion._

He then presses his palms against the oak table as if for grounding.

''Nothing I say is going to make it easier for you to want to do this. For Toby to want to do this - but if he's internally bleeding, or even if he's dealing with injuries that haven't been treated properly - he could get an infection or he could get a fever. He could get_ sepsis_. We don't even know how badly he's hurt yet. To ignore his injuries would be irresponsible at best.''

Toby's mother pushes away from the table and moves to back of the room, her body quavering. Her voice is rapidly repressed as Sherlock approaches cautiously and assists her back to the table.

Lestrade seems to make a decision at that point, and ushers Donovan and myself out of the room.

Sherlock, however, remains behind and gives me a nod before the door shuts, and I take in his voice as he leans in closer to the broken woman. His hand cups hers in a quiet showing of solidarity.


End file.
